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LETTERS   OF 
SIDNEY    LANIER 


Selections  from  His  Correspondence 
1866-1881 


WITH    PORTRAITS 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1899 


Copyright,  1899 
BY  MARY  DAY  LANIER 


SSttibersttg 

JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


A    POEM-OUTLINE 

BY 

SIDNEY  LANIER 

Are  ye  so  sharp  set  for  the  centre  of  the  earth,  are  ye  so  hungry  for  the 

centre  of  things, 

O  rains  and  springs  and  rivers  of  the  mountains  ? 
Towards  the  centre  of  the  earth,  towards  the  -very  Middle  of  things,  ye 

•will  fall,  ye  -will  run,  the  Centre  -will  draw  ye,  Gravity  -will  drive 

you  and  draw  you  in  one : 
But  the  Centre  ye  witi  not  reach,  ye  will  come  as  near  as  the  plains, 

—  watering  them  in  coming  so  near,  —  and  ye  will  come  as  near 

as  the  bottom  of  the  Ocean,  seeing  and  working  many  marvels  as 

ye  come  so  near : 

But  the  Centre  of  Things  ye  will  not  reach, 
O  my  rivers  and  rains  and  springs  of  the  mountains. 
Provision  is  made  that  ye  shall  not :  ye  would  be  merged,  ye  could  not 

return. 
Nor  shall  my  soul  be  merged  in  God,  though  tending,  though  tending. 


Prefatory    Note 

IT    may   be    assumed    even    within    the    brief 
formality   of  an    introductory   note    that   Sidney 
Lanier    was     a     rare     good    writer    of     letters. 
Whereas    a   volume    of    poems,    say,    may   bring 
forth  the  extremes  of  condemnation  and  approval 
from  esthetical  judges  possessing,  apparently,  an 
equally  high  critical  equipment,  the  gift  of  letter- 
writing,  curious  and  capricious  as  it  often  is,  be 
comes  manifest  to  readers  at  large  in  a  paragraph, 
a  sentence,  a  glance.     The  philosopher,  the  poet, 
the   novelist,  the    great  journalist   may  be  hope 
lessly  dull  in  these  private  compositions,  unmeant 
for  publication;   and  every  one  has  known  some 
alert,   gossippy  old    lady,    seemingly  with    genius 
only   for     pastry   crust,    and     obviously   with    no 
mental  pabulum    above  the    Sunday  newspapers, 
whose  letters  were  delightful. 

The  most  important  object  of  this  volume  is, 
doubtless,  to  give  the  poet's  audience  a  clearer  and 
closer  glimpse  of  Lanier  the  man,  and  to  show 
how  nearly  synonymous  with  him  was  Lanier  the 
poet  and  musician.  The  letters  have  no  compre 
hensive  range  to  aid  in  this  endeavor,  but  they 
have  this  lively  and  intimate  style  which  serves 


3 


viii  Prefatory  Note 

at  once  to  picture  the  poet-writer  with  strength, 
if  with  haste,  and  to  give  an  intrinsically  enter 
taining  quality  to  the  volume. 

In  Sidney  Lanier's  case  several  things  combined 
to  insure  the  presence  of  this  human  interest  in 
his  letter-writing.  His  mind  was  almost  preter- 
naturally  alert,  his  sympathies  ready  and  keen, 
his  gift  of  expression  facile  and  naively  daring. 
Picture  such  a  young  man  of  genius,  confident  of 
his  genius,  coming  fresh  from  the  provinces  to 
hear,  for  the  first  time,  Wagner  and  Theodore 
Thomas, — to  meet,  for  the  first  time,  the  men 
whose  God  was  his  God.  There  was  not  a  sophis 
ticated  fibre  in  his  being  to  cheapen  the  joy  of  the 
new  sensations,  as  he  wrote  of  them,  exuberantly, 
to  his  wife  and  his  friends.  It  reminds  one  of 
what  Thackeray  said  of  Clive  Newcome,  that  a 
mere  glass  of  claret  seemed  to  give  that  young 
man  more  pleasure  than  other  people  could  get 
out  of  it. 

It  is  as  well  to  remind  readers  of  this,  that 
Lanier  was  writing  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
artist  who  is  suddenly  transferred  from  a  region 
desert  of  art,  in  which  he  has  been  groping  and 
struggling  throughout  his  life,  to  his  country's 
centre  of  music  and  letters.  It  explains  a  degree 
of  ecstasy  which  to  a  casual  reader  might  seem 
inexplicable,  and  it  adds  a  distinct  pleasure  to  the 
reading;  every  one  knows  the  delight  of  sharing 
with  a  companion  of  sensibility  his  first  occasion 
of  great  dramatic  or  musical  art,  and  the  pleasure 


Prefatory  Note  ix 

is   not  less  when    the    companion    is  a   poet  and 
musician. 

The  letters  have  been  selected  from  Mr.  Lanier's 
correspondence  in  the  period  between  1866  and 
1881.  They  are  not  grouped  chronologically, 
because  neither  their  content  nor  their  editing  is 
formally  biographical.  Of  the  four  groups,  one 
is  composed  of  letters  on  musical  topics  written 
to  the  poet's  wife,  and  the  remainder  are  the 
results  of  three  literary  friendships.  Most  of  the 
letters  have  been  printed  before,  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  Scribner's  Magazine,  The  Critic,  and  the 
Life  and  Letters  of  Bayard  Taylor.  The  selection 
and  the  editing  of  the  letters*  are  the  work  of 
Mr.  Henry  Wysham  Lanier,  the  poet's  son,  who 
has  had  the  assistance  and  co-operation  of  his 
mother,  Mrs.  Sidney  Lanier.  The  collection  was 
made  possible  by  the  kindness  of  Mrs.  Bayard 
Taylor,  Mr.  Will  H.  Hayne,  and  Mr.  William  R. 
Thayer;  and  the  introduction  to  the  group  of 
letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock  is  from  Mr.  Thayer's 
pen,  being  a  selection  from  the  fuller  context 
given  in  1894,  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  The  in 
troductory  paragraphs  also  in  the  letters  to  Paul 
Hayne  were  from  the  pen  of  that  poet. 

C.  D.  L. 

*  As  was  true  of  the  preceding  volumes,  Music  and  Poetry  and 
Retrospects  and  Prospects. 


Contents 


PAGE 
LETTERS  TO  MR.  GIBSON  PEACOCK i 

A  POET'S  MUSICAL  IMPRESSIONS 65 

LETTERS  BETWEEN  Two  POETS  :   BAYARD  TAYLOR 

AND  SIDNEY  LANIER 117 

LETTERS  TO  PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE 219 


Illustrations 


PAGE 
SIDNEY  LANIER  IN  1857 Frontispiece 

SIDNEY  LANIER  IN  1870 68 

FIRST  AND  LAST  PAGES  IN  FACSIMILE  OF  A  LETTER 

TO  BAYARD  TAYLOR 214 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock 


Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock 


INTRODUCTION 

BY    WILLIAM    R.    THAYER 


SIDNEY  LANIER  was  born  in  Macon,  Ga.,  February  3, 
1842.  The  Laniers  were  French  Huguenots,  who  took 
refuge  in  England  in  Elizabeth's  time,  and  attained,  at 
her  court  and  that  of  the  Stuarts,  to  distinction  in  music 
and  painting.  The  founder  of  the  American  branch 
came  to  Richmond,  Va.,  in  1716.  Lanier's  mother, 
Mary  Anderson,  was  of  Scotch  descent.  So  far  as 
heredity  counted,  therefore,  he  had  behind  him,  on 
both  sides,  pious  ancestors,  and  it  may  not  be  too 
fanciful  to  suppose  that  he  drew  from  those  far-off, 
art-loving  Huguenot  forerunners  the  beginnings  of  his 
own  exquisite  sensibility  to  art.  Of  this  sensibility  he 
early  showed  signs,  music  especially  having  a  wonder 
ful  power  over  him.  At  fourteen  he  entered  Ogle- 
thorpe  College,  where  he  got  such  education  as  was  to 
be  obtained  at  a  small  Southern  seminary  before  the 
Rebellion.  Graduating  with  highest  honors  in  1860,  he 
accepted  a  tutorship,  but  in  the  following  year,  at  the 
outbreak  of  the  war,  he  enlisted  in  the  first  regiment  of 
Georgia  Volunteers,  and  served  till  1864,  when,  being 
in  command  of  a  blockade  runner,  he  was  taken  pris- 


4  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

oner  and  confined  at  Point  Lookout.  In  February, 
1865,  he  was  exchanged,  and,  travelling  most  of  the  dis 
tance  on  foot,  made  his  way  back  to  Macon,  where  he 
broke  down  with  the  first  serious  premonitions  of  con 
sumption.  The  exposures  in  the  army,  the  rigor  of  his 
imprisonment,  —  he  had  begun  the  winter  months  at 
Point  Lookout  with  only  summer  clothes  to  wear,  —  had 
weakened  his  constitution,  and  a  tendency  to  consump 
tion,  inherited  from  his  mother,  warned  him  thus  early 
that  to  live  he  must  struggle. 

Upon  his  recovery  he  was  employed  as  a  clerk  at 
Montgomery,  Ala.,  and  in  1867  ne  published,  in  New 
York,  "Tiger  Lilies,"  a  novel  into  which  he  wove  some 
of  his  war  experiences,  and  which  better  deserves  to  be 
unearthed  than  do  many  of  the  firstfruits  of  genius. 
That  same  year  he  married  Miss  Mary  Day,  of  Macon. 
Thenceforth,  through  all  his  wanderings  he  was  blessed 
with  the  companionship  of  one  who  firmly  believed  in 
his  powers,  and  who  cheered  alike  his  years  of  dis 
appointment  and  of  illness.  Doubly  precarious  was  his 
existence :  his  ill-health  prevented  him  from  pursuing 
any  occupation  long,  and  his  straitened  means  forced 
him  to  accept  uncongenial  employments,  if  only  he 
might  thereby  earn  bread.  We  find  him  teaching 
school  at  Prattville,  Ala.,  and  then  for  several  years, 
at  his  father's  urgent  request,  practising  law  at  Macon, 
till  in  1872  the  condition  of  his  lungs  drove  him  to 
San  Antonio,  Texas,  in  search  of  a  climate  in  which  he 
might  safely  live.  In  the  following  spring,  however,  he 
returned  to  Georgia,  and  in  December,  1873,  ne  went 
to  Baltimore,  where  he  was  engaged  to  play  the  first 
flute  in  the  Peabody  Orchestra. 

These  are  but  the  externals  of  his  early  life  :  to  know 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock  5 

how,  amid  such  vicissitudes,  his  genius  had  developed 
we  should  need  to  have  recourse  to  his  diary  and 
letters  to  his  family,  and  to  other  material  that  will  some 
day  be  the  basis  of  an  adequate  biography.  But  we 
know  already  enough  to  say  that  his  flowering  as  a  poet 
was  neither  sudden  nor  casual.  From  his  youth  up, 
Music  and  Poetry  had  been  equally  his  mistresses,  and 
for  a  long  time  there  was  doubt  as  to  which  would 
predominate.  As  a  boy,  he  could  play  almost  any 
instrument,  and  it  is  recorded  how,  after  improvising 
on  the  violin,  he  would  be  rapt  into  an  ecstasy  which 
left  his  whole  frame  trembling  with  the  exhaustion  of 
too  tense  delight.  In  the  army,  his  flute  had  been  his 
constant  companion,  and  it  had  endeared  him  to  his 
captors  at  Point  Lookout.  Yet  all  this  while  he  had 
felt  the  growing  compulsion  of  poetry  within  him ;  he 
had  planned  a  drama,  and  occasionally  written  verses. 
Neither  sickness  nor  drudgery  could  long  turn  him  from 
the  deepest  craving  of  his  spirit.  Conscious  of  his 
powers,  he  yet  had,  what  is  perhaps  the  rarest  talent 
in  men  of  his  temperament,  the  talent  of  waiting.  The 
mission  of  poet,  as  he  conceived  it,  transcends  all 
others;  he  knew  that  the  innate  poetic  faculty  would 
not  suffice  for  its  fulfilment  unless  it  were  reinforced  by 
character  and  by  knowledge.  So  he  refrained  from 
miniature  utterance.  "  Day  by  day,"  he  wrote  to  his 
wife  in  February,  1870,  "from  my  snow  and  my  sun 
shine,  a  thousand  vital  elements  rill  through  my  soul. 
Day  by  day,  the  secret  deep  forces  gather,  which  will 
presently  display  themselves  in  bending  leaf  and  waxy 
petal,  and  in  useful  fruit  and  grain."  Again,  from 
Texas,  he  wrote  :  "  All  day  my  soul  hath  been  cutting 
swiftly  into  the  great  space  of  the  subtle,  unspeakable 


6  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

deep,  driven  by  wind  after  wind  of  heavenly  melody. 
The  very  inner  spirit  and  essence  of  all  wind-songs, 
bird-songs,  passion-songs,  folk-songs,  country- songs, 
sex-songs,  soul-songs,  and  body-songs  hath  blown  upon 
me  in  quick  gusts  like  the  breath  of  passion,  and  sailed 
me  into  a  sea  of  vast  dreams,  whereof  each  wave  is  at 
once  a  vision  and  a  melody." 

Conscious  of  his  powers,  therefore,  he  had  neverthe 
less  patience  to  await  their  ripening.  Feeling  that  the 
highest  mission  had  been  entrusted  to  him,  he  seems 
to  have  said  to  himself,  like  Milton :  "  I  was  confirmed 
in  this  opinion,  that  he  who  would  not  be  frustrate  of 
his  hope  to  write  well  hereafter  in  laudable  things  ought 
himself  to  be  a  true  poem ;  that  is,  a  composition  and 
pattern  of  the  best  and  honorablest  things ;  not  presum 
ing  to  sing  high  praises  of  heroic  men  or  famous  cities, 
unless  he  have  in  himself  the  experience  and  practice 
of  all  that  which  is  praiseworthy." 

To  break  away  from  the  law  against  his  father's 
advice,  and  to  seek  support  from  his  art  among  stran 
gers,  required  resolution  which  only  his  loyalty  to  art 
could  justify.  In  Baltimore  his  flute  brought  him  a 
bare  maintenance,  and  left  him  leisure  for  study  and 
for  poetry.  He  felt  that  the  time  had  come  when  he , 
might  open  his  lips.  A  long  poem,  "  Corn,"  took  shape, 
and  he  hoped  to  find  in  New  York  an  editor  who 
would  publish  it ;  but  a  visit  to  that  city  only  served  to 
teach  him  the  "  wooden-headedness  "  of  many  persons 
who  were  leaders  there  in  literary  matters.  Yet  he  was 
not  discouraged,  nor  did  the  rebuff  sour  him.  "  I 
remember,"  he  writes,  "  that  it  has  always  been  so ; 
that  the  new  man  has  always  to  work  his  way  over 
these  Alps  of  stupidity,  much  as  that  ancient  general 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock  7 

crossed  the  actual  Alps,  splitting  the  rocks  with  vinegar 
and  fire,  —  that  is,  by  bitterness  and  suffering.  D.  V., 
I  will  split  them.  .  .  .  The  more  I  am  thrown  against 
these  people  here,  and  the  more  reverses  I  suffer  at 
their  hands,  the  more  confident  I  am  of  beating  them 
finally.  I  do  not  mean,  by  '  beating,'  that  I  am  in 
opposition  to  them,  or  that  I  hate  them,  or  feel  ag 
grieved  with  them ;  no,  they  know  no  better,  and  they 
act  up  to  their  light  with  wonderful  energy  and  consist 
ency.  I  only  mean  that  I  am  sure  of  being  able,  some 
day,  to  teach  them  better  things  and  nobler  modes  of 
thought  and  conduct." 

A  few  months  later,  in  "  Lippincott's  Magazine  "  for 
February,  1875,  "Corn"  was  published.  Read  after 
twenty  years  have  proved  its  staying  powers,  we  do  not 
wonder  that  here  and  there  a  discerning  reader  at  once 
recognized  the  merits  of  that  poem ;  for  in  it  we  plainly 
see  Lanier's  credentials  from  the  Muse.  Nevertheless, 
recognition  came  slowly,  but  it  came  from  persons 
whose  opinion  confirmed  his  unflinching  yet  unpre- 
sumptuous  belief  in  his  poetic  mission.  First  among 
these  was  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock,  the  friend  to  whom  the 
following  series  of  letters  was  written.  Mr.  Peacock 
was  the  editor  of  the  Philadelphia  "  Evening  Bulletin," 
a  newspaper  in  which,  under  his  direction,  literary  and 
artistic  matters  were  treated  seriously  at  a  time  when  it 
was  rare  for  Philadelphia  journals  so  to  treat  them.  In 
these  days  he  would  be  called  an  editor  of  the  old 
school,  since  he  had  had  a  college  education,  had  read 
widely  the  best  English  literature,  was  familiar  with 
the  modern  languages,  had  travelled  far  in  this  country 
and  in  Europe,  and  had  cultivated  himself  not  less  in 
music  and  in  dramatic  criticism  than  in  books.  Having 


8  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

read  "Corn"  in  "  Lippincott's,"  he  wrote  an  enthusi 
astic  notice  of  it  in  the  "  Evening  Bulletin ; "  and  this 
notice  speedily  brought  him  a  letter  from  Lanier,  the 
first  in  this  collection,  and  ere  many  weeks  they  met. 
From  their  meeting  ripened  a  friendship  strong  and 
honorable  on  both  sides,  as  these  letters  will  show. 
Though  Mr.  Peacock  was  a  man  of  extreme  reserve, 
and  the  elder  by  twenty  years,  yet  neither  age  nor 
reserve  hindered  his  affectionate  interest  from  manifest 
ing  itself  to  Lanier,  who,  in  turn,  rejoiced  at  finding 
a  friend  who  was  also  competent  to  criticise  and  to 
suggest. 

Through  Mr.  Peacock,  Lanier  became  acquainted 
with  Charlotte  Cushman,  with  Bayard  Taylor,  and  with 
many  another  of  the  appreciators  of  art  and  literature 
who  in  those  days  frequented  the  little  parlors  in 
Walnut  Street.  How  inspiring  and  helpful  this  inter 
course  was  to  Lanier  we  may  guess  when  we  remember 
that  until  now,  though  past  thirty,  he  had  been  seeking 
health  and  a  livelihood  in  places  which,  stricken  by  the 
havoc  of  conquest,  had  little  time  or  means  for  culture. 
Amid  hostile  conditions  he  had  cherished  his  Ideal, 
and  now  he  found,  what  every  genuine  soul  craves, 
friendship  and  appreciation.  There  was  no  danger  of 
his  becoming  spoiled;  the  sympathy  he  received  was 
far  removed  from  flattery.  To  Miss  Cushman  he  was 
especially  drawn,  —  as  were  all  who  had  the  privilege 
of  knowing  well  that  generous  and  brave  spirit,  —  and 
to  Mrs.  Peacock,  whose  voice  of  wonderful  range  and 
beauty,  and  whose  sympathetic  nature,  made  her 
doubly  attractive  to  him.  He  could  now  feel  that 
though  fame  still  lingered,  and  though  the  daily  struggle 
for  existence  must  be  met,  there  was  a  little  circle  of 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock  9 

friends  whose  commendation  he  could  trust,  and  upon 
whose  affection,  liberal  and  sincere,  he  could  at  all 
times  rely.  At  the  Peacocks'  he  more  than  once  found 
shelter  in  distress.  There,  during  the  Centennial  year, 
he  was  tenderly  nursed  through  an  illness  which  brought 
him  very  near  the  grave ;  there,  his  visits  were  always 
welcome. 

Lanier's  letters  to  Mr.  Peacock  tell  so  fully  his  plans 
and  wanderings  between  1875  and  1880  that  it  is  un 
necessary  to  add  biographic  details  here.  During  those 
years  there  was  no  other  correspondent  to  whom  he  so 
freely  wrote  out  of  his  heart.  These  letters  not  only 
admit  us  into  the  fellowship  of  a  poet,  but  they  also  dis 
close  to  us  a  man  whose  life  was,  in  Milton's  phrase, 
"  a  true  poem."  Here  is  nothing  to  extenuate,  nothing 
to  blot :  the  poet  and  the  man  are  one.  My  purpose 
in  editing  has,  accordingly,  been  to  retain  whatever 
reveals  aught,  however  slight,  of  the  man,  in  order  that 
the  portrait  of  Lanier's  personality,  unconsciously  drawn 
by  himself,  should  be  as  complete  as  possible ;  and 
whatever  does  not  refer  to  this  will  at  least  illustrate  the 
conditions  by  which  an  embodied  Ideal,  a  Poet,  so 
recently  found  himself  beset  in  this  world  of  ours.  I 
know  not  where  to  look  for  a  series  of  letters  which,  in 
bulk  equally  small,  relate  so  humanly  and  beautifully 
the  story  of  so  precious  a  life. 

64  CENTRE  STREET,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 
January  26,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  SIR  :  A  very  lovely  friend  of  mine  —  Mrs. 
F.  W.  —  has  been  so  gracious  as  to  transmit  to  me, 
through  my  wife,  your  first  comments  on  my  poem 
"  Corn,"  in  "  Lippincott's,"  which  I  had  not  seen  before. 


io  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

The  slip  appears  to  be  cut  from  the  " Bulletin"  of  i6th 
or  i  yth. 

I  cannot  resist  the  impulse  which  urges  me  to  send 
you  my  grateful  acknowledgments  of  the  poetic  in 
sight,  the  heartiness  and  the  boldness  which  display 
themselves  in  this  critique.  I  thank  you  for  it,  as  for  a 
poet's  criticism  upon  a  poet. 

Permit  me  to  say  that  I  am  particularly  touched  by 
the  courageous  independence  of  your  review.  In  the 
very  short  time  that  I  have  been  in  the  hands  of  the 
critics,  nothing  has  amazed  me  more  than  the  timid 
solicitudes  with  which  they  rarefy  in  one  line  any  en 
thusiasm  they  may  have  condensed  in  another  —  a  pro 
cess  curiously  analogous  to  those  irregular  condensations 
and  rarefactions  of  air  which  physicists  have  shown  to 
be  the  conditions  for  producing  an  indeterminate  sound. 
Many  of  my  critics  have  seemed  —  if  I  may  change  the 
figure  —  to  be  forever  conciliating  the  yet-unrisen  ghosts 
of  possible  mistakes.  From  these  you  separate  yourself 
toto  coclo ;  and  I  am  thoroughly  sure  that  your  method 
is  not  only  far  more  worthy  the  dignity  of  the  critical 
office,  but  also  far  more  helpful  to  the  young  artist,  by 
its  bold  sweeping-away  of  those  sorrowful  uncertain 
mists  that  arise  at  times  out  of  the  waste  bitterness  of 
poverty  and  obscurity. 

—  Perhaps  here  is  more  feeling  than  is  quite  delicate 
in  a  communication  to  one  not  an  old  personal  friend  : 
but  I  do  not  hesitate  upon  propriety,  if  only  I  may  con 
vey  to  you  some  idea  of  the  admiration  with  which  I 
regard  your  manly  position  in  my  behalf,  and  of  the 
earnestness  with  which  I  shall  always  consider  myself 
Your  obliged  and  faithful  friend, 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock  1 1 

March  2,  1875. 

DEAR  MR.  PEACOCK  :  I  write  a  line  to  say  that  busi 
ness  will  probably  call  me  to  Philadelphia  in  a  day  or 
two,  and  that  I  particularly  desire  to  go  with  you  and 
Mrs.  Peacock  to  Theodore  Thomas'  Symphony  Concert 
on  Friday  night.  If  you  have  no  other  engagement  for 
that  evening,  pray  set  it  apart  graciously  for  me,  who 
am  already  tingling  with  the  anticipated  double  delight 
of  j'tf&rselves  and  of  music. 

Many  thanks  for  the  "  Bulletin  "  containing  the  Sonnet. 
I  am  gratified  that  you  should  have  thought  the  little 
poem  worth  republishing.  I  have  not  now  time  to  say 
more  than  that  I  am  always 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

March  24,  1875. 

A  thousand  thanks  for  your  kind  and  very  thoughtful 
letter.  I  should  have  gone  to  Philadelphia  in  ac 
ceptance  of  your  invitation  to  meet  Miss  Cushman,  — 
although  much  tied  by  engagements  here,  and  in  ill 
condition  of  health  to  go  anywhere,  —  had  I  not  ex 
pected  to  meet  her  here  in  April.  Your  announcement 
of  her  illness  gives  me  sincere  concern,  and  I  will  be 
thankful  to  you  if  you  will  keep  me  posted  as  to  her 
progress  in  recovery.  I  wrote  her  a  short  time  ago,  to 
care  of  her  bankers  in  New  York :  but  fear  she  has 
been  too  ill  to  read  my  letter. 

I  have  the  delightful  anticipation  of  seeing  you  again, 
for  a  day  or  two,  ere  long :  but  cannot  tell  whether  it 
will  be  in  two  or  three  weeks.  My  plans  depend  on 
the  movements  of  others ;  and  as  soon  as  they  become 
more  definite  you  shall  know  them. 

Pray  tell  your  good  Mrs.  Peacock  that  I   am  much 


1 2  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

better,  and,  though  in  daily  fight  against  severe  pain, 
am  hard  at  work.  About  four  days  ago,  a  certain  poem 
which  I  had  vaguely  ruminated  for  a  week  before  took 
hold  of  me  like  a  real  James  River  ague,  and  I  have  been 
in  a  mortal  shake  with  the  same,  day  and  night,  ever 
since.  I  call  it  "  The  Symphony  :  "  I  personify  each  in 
strument  in  the  orchestra,  and  make  them  discuss  various 
deep  social  questions  of  the  times,  in  the  progress  of  the 
music.  It  is  now  nearly  finished  ;  and  I  shall  be  rejoiced 
thereat,  for  it  verily  racks  all  the  bones  of  my  spirit. 

Did  you  see  Mr.  [Bayard]  Taylor?  Tell  me  about 
him.  I  cannot  tell  you  with  what  eagerness  I  devoured 
"  Felix  Holt."  For  perfect  force-in- repose,  Miss  Evans 
(or,  I  should  have  said,  Mrs.  Lewes)  is  not  excelled  by 
any  writer. 

Pray  convey  my  warm  regards  to  Mrs.  Peacock,  and 
keep  that  big,  heartsome  "  Max  Adeler  " J  in  remem 
brance  of  his  and 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

BRUNSWICK,  GA.,  April  18,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  MRS.  PEACOCK:  Such  a  three  days'  do  Ice 
far  nientt  as  I  'm  having !  With  a  plenty  of  love,  — 
wife's,  bairns',  and  brother's,  —  and  no  end  of  trees  and 
vines,  what  more  should  a  work-battered  man  desire,  in 
this  divine  atmosphere  which  seems  like  a  great  sigh  of 
pleasure  from  some  immense  Lotos  in  the  vague  South? 
The  little  house,  by  one  of  whose  windows  I  am  writing, 
stands  in  one  corner  of  an  open  square  which  is  sur- 

1  The  pseudonym  of  Charles  Heber  Clark,  at  that  time  an 
editor  of  the  Philadelphia  "  Evening  Bulletin,"  and  the  author  of 
"  Out  of  the  Hurly-Burly,"  "  Elbow  Room,"  and  other  humorous 
works. 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          13 

rounded  by  an  unbroken  forest  of  oaks,  of  all  manner  of 
clambering  and  twining  things,  and  of  pines,  —  not  the 
dark,  gloomy  pines  of  the  Pennsylvania  mountains,  but 
tall  mabses  of  vivid  emerald  all  in  a  glitter  with  the  more 
brilliant  green  of  the  young  buds  and  cones ;  the  sun  is 
shining  with  a  hazy  and  absent-minded  face,  as  if  he 
were  thinking  of  some  quite  other  star  than  this  poor 
earth ;  occasionally  a  little  wind  comes  along,  not  warm, 
but  unspeakably  bland,  bringing  strange  scents  rather  of 
leaves  than  of  flowers  ;  the  mocking-birds  are  all  singing, 
but  singing  sotto  voce,  and  a  distant  cock  crows  as  if  he 
did  n't  mean  to  crow,  but  only  to  yawn  luxuriously ;  an 
old  mauma  over  in  the  neighborhood  is  singing,  as  she 
sets  about  washing  in  her  deliberate  way,  something  like 
this  :  — 

Adagio. 


tax^=5^^73Ed^=^Eb^o3-f  fi    l-£Jg 
f±i^^^^^--^^  Lfl  I  ^-jj-esfcztg^ 


*ES^-^Jy^jr3Spfrta 


persistently  rejecting  all  the  semitones  of  the  D  minor 
in  which  she  is  singing  (as  I  have  observed  all  the 
barbaric  music  does,  as  far  as  it  can),  and  substituting 
the  stronger  Ctl  for  the  C#;  and  now  my  little  four- 
year-old  comes  in  from  feeding  the  pony  and  the  goat, 
and  writhes  into  my  lap,  and  inquires  with  great  interest, 
"  Papa,  can  you  whistle  backwards  ?  "  by  which  I  find, 
after  a  puzzled  inquiry,  that  he  means  to  ask  if  I  can 
whistle  by  drawing  my  breath  in,  instead  of  forcing  it 
out,  —  an  art  in  which  he  proceeds  to  instruct  me  with  a 
great  show  of  superiority :  and  now  he  leaves,  and  the 


14  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

whole  world  is  still  again,  except  the  bird's  lazy  song  and 
old  mauma's  monotonous  crooning. 

I  am  convinced  that  God  meant  this  land  for  people  to 
rest  in,  —  not  to  work  in.  If  we  were  so  constituted  that 
life  could  be  an  idyll,  then  this  were  the  place  of  places 
for  it ;  but  being,  as  it  is,  the  hottest  of  all  battles,  a  man 
might  as  well  expect  to  plan  a  campaign  in  a  dream  as 
to  make  anything  like  his  best  fight  here.  .  .  . 

Pray  write  me  how  Miss  Cushman  seemed  on  the 
morning  after  the  reading.  She  was  so  exhausted  when 
I  helped  her  from  the  carriage  that  I  fear  her  strength 
must  have  been  severely  taxed.  My  address  for  a  month 
hence  will  be  at  Jacksonville,  Fla. :  I  leave  for  that  place 
on  Wednesday  (day  after  to-morrow),  and  shall  make  it 
headquarters  during  all  my  ramblings  around  the  flowery 
State. 

iThese  lonesome  journeys  —  which  are  the  necessities 
of  my  unsettled  existence  —  make  me  doubly  grateful  for 
the  delightful  recollections  which  form  my  companions 
along  the  tiresome  miles,  and  for  which  I  am  indebted 
to  you. )  Believe,  my  dear  Mrs.  Peacock,  that  they  are 
always  with  me,  and  that  I  am  always  your  and  Mr. 
Peacock's 

Sincere  friend,  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

BRUNSWICK,  GA.,  June  16,  1875. 

(I  am  just  stopping  here  a  day,  after  the  woods  of 
Florida.  I  have  all  your  letters.  Out  of  what  a  liberal 
sky  do  you  rain  your  gracious  encouragements  upon  me  ! 
In  truth,  dear  friend,  there  is  such  large  sweep  and  swing 
in  this  shower-after-shower  of  your  friendliness,  it  comes 
in  such  big  rhythms  of  generosities,  it  is  such  a  poem  of 
inner  rains,  that  I  cannot  at  all  get  myself  satisfied  to 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock  i£ 

meet  it  with  anything  less  than  that  perfect  rose  of  a  song 
which  should  be  the  product  of  such  watering.  I  think  I 
hear  one  of  these  growing  now  down  in  my  soul  yonder, 
somewhere  :  presently  the  green  calyx  of  silence  shall 
split,  .  .  .  and  you  shall  see  your  flower.  * 

Your  notice  of  "The  Symphony"  l  has  given  a  great 
deal  of  pleasure  to  my  family  as  well  as  to  me.  It 
has  been  extensively  copied  in  the  Southern  papers, 
and  adopted  by  editors  as  expressing  their  views  of 
the  poem. 

«Mr.  [Bayard]  Taylor's  letter  brings  me  a  noble  pros 
pect  of  realizing  an  old  dream.  I  had  always  a  longing 
after  him,  but  I  have  never  dared  indulge  it  more  than 
one  indulges  what  one  considers  only  a  pet  possibility ; 
so  that  now  when  I  behold  this  mere  shadow  of  a  meet 
ing  assume  the  shape  of  an  actual  hand-shaking  in  the 
near  future,  it  is  as  when  a  man  wakes  in  the  morning 
and  finds  his  Dream  standing  by  his  bed.  t 

After  August,  when  my  present  engagement  will  termi 
nate,  my  motions  will  entirely  depend  on  whatever  income- 
bringing  work  I  may  succeed  in  finding.  Within  three 
weeks  from  this  time,  I  will  however  be  en  route  to  New 
York,  and  you  must  write  me  as  soon  as  you  receive  this 
—  addressing  me  at  Macon,  Ga.  —  your  programme  for 
that  time,  if  you  're  going  to  be  out  of  Philadelphia.  I 
shall  look  you  up  ubicttnque  in  Anglia,  wherever  you 
may  be. 

May  I  beg  that  you  will  cause  Mr.  Taylor  to  address 
me  to  your  own  care,  or,  if  you  are  to  leave  town  before 
I  get  there,  to  care  of  the  "  Bulletin  "  ?  I  will  write  my 
own  plans  more  definitely  in  a  few  days. 

1  "  The  Symphony  "  was  published  in  "  Lippincott's  Magazine," 
June,  1875. 


1 6  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Pray  accept  this  photograph.1  Of  course  you  will  see 
that,  instead  of  being  an  average  of  my  phiz,  it  is  the  best 
possible  single  view  thereof,  and  is  for  that  reason  much 
better  looking  than  I  am,  but  it  will  serve  to  remind  you 
and  my  dear  Mrs.  Peacock  of 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  L. 

PHILADELPHIA,  PA.,  July  31,  1875. 

If  you  have  ever  watched  a  shuttle,  my  dear  friend, 
being  violently  knocked  backward  and  forward  in  a  loom, 
never  settled  for  an  instant  at  this  end  before  it  is  rudely 
smacked  back  to  the  other,  you  will  possess  a  very  fair 
idea  of  the  nature  of  my  recent  travels.  I  do  not  know 
how  many  times  I  have  been  from  North  to  South  in  the 
last  six  weeks ;  the  negotiations  about  the  Florida  book 
and  the  collection  of  additional  material  for  it  have 
required  my  presence  at  widely  separated  points  often ; 
and  as  my  employer  is  himself  always  on  the  wing,  I 
have  sometimes  had  to  make  a  long  chase  in  order  to 
come  up  with  him.  I  believe  my  wanderings  are  now 
ended,  however,  for  a  time,  and  as  the  very  first  of  the 
many  blessings  which  this  cessation  of  travel  will  bring 
to  a  tired  soul,  I  count  the  opportunity  to  send  a  line 
which  will  carry  my  love  to  you  and  to  your  other  you. 

Lippincott  has  made  what  seems  to  be  a  very  fair  prop 
osition  to  print  the  Florida  book,  taking  an  interest  in 
it  which  I  think  practically  amounts  to  about  one  half. 
I  am  going  to  add  to  it,  by  way  of  appendix,  a  complete 
Guide-book  to  Florida ;  and  as  this  feature  ought  of  itself 
to  secure  some  sale  among  the  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand 
annual  visitors,  I  am  induced  to  hope  that  my  employer 

1  The  photograph  is  reproduced  in  the  volume  of  Lanier's 
poems  published  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  in  1884. 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock  17 

may  be  reimbursed  for  his  entire  outlay,  —  though  I  keep 
in  mind  what  they  all  tell  me,  that  the  publication  of 
any  book  is  a  mere  lottery,  and  baffles  all  prophecy  as 
to  its  success.  Two  chapters  of  the  book,  one  on  "  St. 
Augustine  "  in  April,  and  one  on  "  The  Oclawaha  River," 
are  to  appear  in  the  Magazine,  October  and  November 
numbers. 

I  will  probably  leave  here  to-day,  and  my  address  for 
a  month  hence  will  be  195  Dean  St.,  Brooklyn.  Your 
package  of  letters  was  handed  me  duly  at  the  "  Bulletin  " 
office.  I  was  ready  to  murder  somebody,  for  pure  vexa 
tion,  when  I  learned  there  that  I  had  just  missed  you  by 
about  two  hours ;  it  would  have  been  such  a  comfort  to 
have  seen  your  two  faces  before  you  left. 

Many  thanks  for  Mr.  Taylor's  letter.  I  do  hope  I 
may  be  able  to  see  him  during  the  next  month.  Do  you 
think  a  letter  from  me  would  reach  him  at  Mattapoisett? 
For  his  estimate  of  my  Symphony  seems  to  me  so  full 
and  generous  that  I  think  I  will  not  resist  the  temptation 
to  anticipate  his  letter  to  me.  I  will  write  also  to  Mr. 
Calvert  to-morrow;  his  insight  into  a  poet's  internal 
working,  as  developed  in  his  kind  notice  of  me  in  the 
"  Golden  Age,"  is  at  once  wonderful  and  delightful. 

The  next  number  of  "  Lippincott's  "  will  contain  four 
sonnets  of  mine  in  the  Shakespearian  metre.  I  sincerely 
hope  they  are  going  to  please  you.  You  will  be  glad  to 
know  that  "  The  Symphony  "  meets  with  continuing  favor 
in  various  parts  of  the  land. 

My  month  in  Brooklyn  will  be  full  of  the  very  hardest 
work.  I  will  be  employed  in  finishing  and  revising  the 
Florida  book,  many  of  the  points  in  which  demand  very 
careful  examination.  In  August  my  railroad  employment 
terminates. 


1 8  Letters  o(  Sidney  Lanlef 

^My  friend  Miss  Stebbins  has  sent  me  a  letter  of  intro 
duction  to  her  brother,  who  is  chairman  of  the  Board  of 
Trustees  of  the  new  College  of  Music  in  New  York.  I 
am  going  to  see  if  they  will  found  a  chair  of  the  Physics 
of  Music  and  give  it  me.  I  can  scarcely  describe  to  you 
how  lovely  my  life  would  seem  if  I  could  devote  the 
balance  of  it  to  such  lectures  as  would  properly  belong 
to  a  professorship  of  this  nature,  and  to  my  poetry.; 

—  So,  now,  you  know  all  about  me  :  tell  me  how  you 
and  Mrs.  Peacock  fare  through  the  summer.  What  is 
Cushing's  Island?1  A  small  one,  broken,  with  water 
dashing  up  all  around  you,  and  a  clean,  sweet  wind  airing 
your  very  souls  ?  I  wish  it  might  be,  for  your  sakes,  and 
I  hope  you  are  both  getting  strong  and  elastic.  Write 
me  straightway  all  about  yourselves.  I  beg  that  each  of 
you  will  deliver  a  loving  message  for  me  to  the  other : 
and  that  you  will  both  hold  me  always  as 

Your  faithful  friend,  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

195  DEAN  STREET,  BROOKLYN,  N.  Y., 
August  10,  1875. 

Your  letter  of  the  8th,  enclosing  McClellan's,  reached 
me  a  few  moments  ago.  Accept  my  thanks  for  both. 

Your  syren- song  of  the  .beauties  of  your  Island  is  at 
once  tempting  and  tantalizing.  When  you  say  you  "  think 
I  would  be  tempted  to  come,  if  I  could  imagine  the 
enchanting  views  from  this  house,"  you  make  me  think 
of  that  French  empress  who  wondered  how  the  stupid 
canaille  could  be  so  obstinate  as  to  starve  when  such 
delicious  pates  could  be  bought  for  only  five  francs  apiece. 
Cushing's  Island,  my  dear  friend,  is  as  impossible  to  me, 
in  the  present  state  of  the  poetry- market,  as  a  dinner  at 

1  A  resort  in  the  harbor  of  Portland,  Me. 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock  19 

Very's  was  to  a  chiffonnier :  all  of  which  I  would  n't  tell 
you,  both  because  it  is  personal  and  because  poverty  is 
not  a  pleasant  thing  to  think  about  at  Cushing's  Island, 
except  for  the  single  controlling  reason  that  I  cannot  bear 
your  thinking  that  I  could  come  to  you,  if  I  would. 

—  And  all  of  which  you  are  to  forget  as  soon  as  you 
have  taken  in  the  whole  prodigious  conclusiveness  of  it, 
and  only  remember  so  far  as  to  consider  yourselves 
charged  to  breathe  enough  sea-air  (heavens,  how  I  long 
for  it !)  for  all  three  of  us ;  as  Arsene  Houssaye's  friend 
with  the  big  appetite  said,  on  sitting  down  and  finding 
that  the  gentleman  who  had  been  invited  to  dine  with 
him  was  unavoidably  absent,  "Well,  I  will  eat  for  us 
both,"  and  then  proceeded  actually  to  do  it,  helping 
himself  twice  at  each  course. 

I  will  probably  see  you,  though,  in  Philadelphia  when 
you  corne;  and  that  is  some  consolation. 

BROOKLYN,  September  9,  1875. 

Will  you  be  in  Philadelphia  about  the  1 3th  or  i4th  next? 
Business  calls  me  there  at  that  time ;  and  I  wish  to 
know  if  I  'm  going  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you. 
I  can  only  scrawl  a  line.  My  work  has  been  rudely 
interrupted  by  a  series  of  troublesome  haemorrhages, 
which  have  for  some  time  prevented  me  from  reading 
or  speaking,  as  well  as  from  writing.  I  'rn  crawling 
back  into  life,  however,  and  hope  to  be  at  work  in  a 
few  days. 

BROOKLYN,  N.  Y.,  September  24,  1875. 
How  bright   you  made   my   little   visit   to    Philadel 
phia,  —  a   sort   of  asteroid   to   circle  round  my  dark. 
But  I  haven't  more  than  just  time  now  to  thank  you 
for  the  letter  and  papers  which  you  forwarded,  and  to 


2O  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

tell  you  to  address  me  henceforth  at  the  Westminster 
Hotel,  New  York  City,  where  I  go  presently,  being  now 
in  the  bitter  agonies  of  moving,  packing  and  the  like 
dreadful  bores.  A  letter  from  Miss  Stebbins  informs 
me  that  they  are  all  safely  at  Lenox  and  our  dear 
Miss  Cushman  improving.  One  can  entrust  one's 
message  to  a  blue  sky  like  this  morning's ;  consider  this 
lovely  day  to  be  the  salutation  of 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  L. 

PARKER  HOUSE,  BOSTON,  MASS., 
November  4,  1875. 

On  arriving  here  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  half 
frozen  and  very  sleepy,  I  found  a  pleasant  room  with  a 
glowing  fire  ready  for  me,  and  so  tumbled  into  bed  for 
another  snooze  before  the  world  should  rise.  About 
nine  I  rose  again ;  and  while  I  was  in  puris  naturalibus 

—  'midst  of    the  very   crisis   and    perilous   climax    of 
ablution  —  came  a  vivacious  tap  at  my  door ;  I  opened 
the    same,   with   many   precautions :    and   behold,   my 
eyes  —  which  were  all  in  lather,  what  time  my  beard 
was  in  strings  that  shed  streams  around  my  path,  and, 
as  it  were,  "  writ  my  name  in  water  "  wherever  I  walked 

—  rested   on   the   bright    face    of  my   good    Charlotte 
Cushman  shining  with  sweetness  and  welcome. 

I  had  expected  to  find  her  all  propped  up  in  pillows ; 
and  was  therefore  amazed  to  see  how  elastic  was  her 
step,  and  how  strong  and  bright  she  is  in  all  particulars. 
She  sleeps  "beautifully"  (she  says),  and  as  we  meet  at 
the  breakfast  table  each  morning  she  is  fairly  overflowing 
with  all  manner  of  bright  and  witty  and  tender  sayings, 
although  in  the  midst  of  them  she  rubs  the  poor  swollen 
arm  that  gives  so  much  trouble. 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          21 

Altogether,  there  can  be  no  question  as  to  her  tem 
porary  benefit,  nor  as  to  the  permanent  gain  resulting 
from  the  good  digestion,  the  healthy  appetite,  the 
sound  sleep,  and  the  control  of  pain  which  her  physi 
cian  has  secured  for  her.  I  believe  that  she  is  at  least 
half-convinced  that  he  is  going  to  cure  her ;  he  tells  her 
so,  continually,  and  does  not  seem  to  entertain  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt  of  it.  I  have  seen  him  twice  for  a 
few  moments ;  and  can  say  that  he  interests  me  very 
much,  because  his  theory  —  which  he  makes  no  con 
cealment  of  whatever  —  is,  as  far  as  he  has  been  able  in 
our  very  short  talks  to  expound  it  to  me,  at  least  new, 
bold,  and  radical,  while  I  do  not  perceive  that  he  gives 
any  sign  of  being  a  mere  charlatan.  I  heard  last  night, 
at  the  Wednesday  Night  Club  (where  Mr.  Coolidge 
was  kind  enough  to  invite  me),  all  sorts  of  stories  about 
him,  many  of  which  I  do  not  doubt  to  be  true.  So 
that,  on  the  whole,  I  am  still  waiting  a  little  for  the 
drawing-out  which  I  intend  to  bring  to  bear  on  him, 
before  I  allow  myself  to  make  a  final  judgment  about 
him.  Meantime  there  can  be  no  question  of  Miss 
Cushman's  genuine  improvement;  and  her  intercourse 
with  the  young  physician  seems  to  have  been  very 
satisfactory  to  her. 

I  have  not  yet  written  a  line  of  my  India  papers; 
and  am  going  at  it  this  morning,  tooth  and  nail.  Will 
you  take  the  trouble  to  ask  the  Librarian  of  the  Philada 
Library  if  I  may  keep  the  two  books  I  have,  for  a  couple 
of  days  longer?  If  he  refuses,  I  will  ask  you  to  tele 
graph  me,  so  that  I  may  get  them  back  in  time. 

Mr.  Taylor,  whom  I  saw  for  a  few  moments  in  New 
York,  asked  after  you  both  very  particularly :  Miss 
Cushman  is  now  secluded  with  the  physician,  else  I 


22  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

am  sure  she  would  send  messages  to  you.  As  for  me, 
dear  friend,  my  thoughts  go  to  you  as  thickly  as  these 
snowflakes  which  are  now  falling  outside  my  window, 
and  —  alas,  as  silently,  for  lack  of  expression.  But  I 
feel  sure  that  you  know  I  am  always 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 


BOSTON,  November  10,  1875. 

I  scrawl  a  hasty  note,  just  as  I  am  leaving,  to  beg 
that  you  will  hand  the  two  books  which  I  have  to-day 
sent  you  by  express  to  the  Librarian,  with  my  thanks 
for  his  kind  permission  to  keep  them  over  the  time. 
They  were  very  useful  to  me. 

Our  friend  Miss  Cushman  is  suffering  a  good  deal  of 
pain  every  day,  but  appears  to  keep  up  her  general 
health  steadily.  I  Ve  had  several  talks  with  her  doctor, 
—  and  I  would  not  be  surprised  if  he  really  cured  her. 
I  find  him  not  at  all  a  quack,  at  least  not  an  ignorant 
one ;  he  is  quite  up  to  the  most  advanced  ideas  in  his 
profession. 

But  I  have  not  time  now  to  say  more.  I  go  directly 
to  Macon,  except  one  day  in  New  York,  and  will  be  at 
home  for  two  weeks,  then  to  Baltimore  for  the  winter, 
to  resume  my  old  place  as  first  flute  in  the  Orchestra. 

God  bless  you  both,  says  your  friend, 

S.  L. 

66  CENTRE  STREET,  BALTIMORE,  Mn., 
December  16,  1875. 

Yours  enclosing  three  dollars  came  to  me  safely ;  and 
I  should  have  immediately  acknowledged  it,  had  I  not 
been  over  head  (literally)  and  ears  in  a  second  install 
ment  of  my  India  papers  for  which  the  magazine  was 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          23 

agonizedly  waiting.  Possibly  you  may  have  seen  the 
January  number  by  this  time ;  and  it  just  occurs  to  me 
that  if  you  should  read  the  India  article  you  will  be 
wondering  'at  my  talking  coolly  of  strolling  about 
Bombay  with  a  Hindu  friend.  But  Bhima  Gandharva 
(Bhima  was  the  name  of  the  ancient  Sanscrit  hero  The 
Son  of  the  Air,  and  Gandharva  means  A  Heavenly 
Musician)  is  only  another  name  for  Imagination  —  which 
is  certainly  the  only  Hindu  friend  I  have ;  and  the  pro 
priety  of  the  term,  as  well  as  the  true  character  of 
Bhima  Gandharva  and  the  insubstantial  nature  of  all 
adventures  recorded  as  happening  to  him  and  myself, 
is  to  be  fully  explained  in  the  end  of  the  last  article. 
I  hit  upon  this  expedient,  after  much  tribulation  and 
meditation,  in  order  at  once  to  be  able  to  make  some 
thing  like  a  narrative  that  should  avoid  an  arid  encyclo 
pedic  treatment,  and  to  be  perfectly  truthful.  The 
only  plan  was  to  make  it  a  pure  jeu  d1  esprit ;  and  in 
writing  the  second  paper  I  have  found  it  of  great 
advantage. 

I  have  n't  heard  a  word  of  the  Florida  book  beyond 
what  you  sent  me  ;  —  God  have  mercy  upon  its  soul,  — 
I  suppose  it  will  be  (as  the  judge  says  when  the  black 
cap  is  on)  hanged  by  the  neck  until  it  is  dead,  dead, 
dead. 

<  I  have  with  me  my  Charley,  atat.  seven,  the  sweetest, 
openest,  honestest  little  man  was  ever  built.  I  find  him 
splendid  company ;  and  I  wish  you  might  see  him  at 
this  moment,  with  his  long  lashes  fringing  the  full  oval 
eyes,  profoundly  slumbering  in  bed,  where  I  have  but 
ten  minutes  ago  tucked  him  in  and  kissed  him  good 
night.  • 

I  have  a  charming  letter  from  C.  C.  [Charlotte  Cush- 


24  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

man],  but  through  all  the  fair  things  she  says  to  me  I 
can  detect  the  note  of  physical  pain,  and  the  poor  sweet 
soul  is  evidently  suffering  greatly. 

It  does  not  now  look  Hkejl  shall  be  able  to  see  you, 
as  I  had  hoped  at  Xmas.  I  wish  I  had  some  method  of 
telling  you  with  what  deep  satisfaction  I  reflect  upon  you 
both,  and  with  what  delight  I  would  find  myself  able  to 
be  to  you,  in  some  fair  act  as  well  as  in  all  fair  words, 

Your  faithful  friend,  S.  L. 

66  CENTRE  STREET,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 
January  18,  1876. 

For  several  weeks  past  all  my  minutes  have  been  the 
property  of  others,  and  I  have  in  vain  tried  to  appro 
priate  a  little  one  to  you. 

The  enclosed  l  will  show  you  partly  what  I  have  been 
doing.  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  mention  the  matter ;  but 
you  will  keep  it  until  the  interdict  against  publicity  is 
removed.  The  Centennial  Commission  has  invited  me 
to  write  a  poem  which  shall  serve  as  the  text  for  a  Can 
tata  (the  music  to  be  by  Dudley  Buck,  of  New  York)  to 
be  sung  at  the  opening  of  the  Exhibition,  under  Thomas' 
direction.  All  this  is  to  be  kept  secret. 
^1  Ve  written  the  enclosed.  Necessarily  I  had  to  think 
out  the  musical  conceptions  as  well  as  the  poem,  and  I 
have  briefly  indicated  these  along  the  margin  of  each 
movement.  ( I  have  tried  to  make  the  whole  as  simple 
and  as  candid  as  a  melody  of  Beethoven's ;  at  the  same 
time  expressing  the  largest  ideas  possible,  and  expressing 
them  in  such  a  way  as  could  not  be  offensive  to  any 

1  First  draught  of  the  Cantata,  to  be  sung  at  the  opening  of  the 
Centennial  Exhibition  at  Philadelphia.  Portions  of  this  and  the 
following  letter  were  printed  as  an  appendix  to  the  Poems,  1884. 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          25 

modern  soul.  I  particularly  hope  you  '11  like  the  Angel's 
Song,  where  I  have  endeavored  to  convey,  in  one  line 
each,  the  philosophies  of  Art,  of  Science,  of  Power,  of 
Government,  of  Faith,  and  of  Social  Life.  Of  course,  I 
shall  not  expect  that  this  will  instantly  appeal  to  tastes 
peppered  and  salted  by  Swinburne  and  that  ilk;  but 
one  cannot  forget  Beethoven,  and  somehow  all  my  in 
spirations  came  in  these  large  and  artless  forms,  in  simple 
Saxon  words,  in  unpretentious  and  purely  intellectual 
conceptions ;  while  nevertheless  I  felt,  all  through,  the 
necessity  of  making  a  genuine  song  —  and  not  a  rhymed 
set  of  good  adages  —  out  of  it.  I  adopted  the  trochees 
of  the  first  movement  because  they  compel  a  measured, 
sober,  and  meditative  movement  of  the  mind;  and 
because,  too,  they  are  not  the  genius  of  our  language. 
When  the  trochees  cease,  and  the  land  emerges  as  a  dis 
tinct  unity,  then  I  fall  into  our  native  iambics.; 

I  am  very  anxious  you  should  think  it  worthy.  If  your 
Maria  shall  like  it,  I  shall  not  feel  any  fear  about  it. 

BALTIMORE,  January  25,  1876. 

Your  praise  and  your  wife's  give  me  a  world  of  com 
fort.  I  really  do  not  believe  anything  was  ever  written 
under  an  equal  number  of  limitations ;  and  when  I  first 
came  to  know  all  the  conditions  of  the  poem,  I  was  for 
a  moment  inclined  to  think  that  no  genuine  work  could 
be  produced  under  them.  As  for  the  friend  who  was  the 
cause  of  the  compliment,  it  was,  directly,  Mr.  Taylor.1 

1  In  answer  to  inquiries,  Senator  Hawley,  President  of  the  Cen 
tennial  Commission,  writes  :  "The  Centennial  Commission,  with 
the  assent  of  the  Board  of  Finance,  made  me  a  committee  of  one 
on  all  matters  of  ceremony,  the  most  important  of  which  were  the 
exercises  on  Opening  Day  and  the  great  celebration  on  the  Fourth 


26  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

I  knew  nothing  of  it  whatever  until  Mr.  T.  wrote  me 
that  it  had  been  settled  to  invite  me.  Indirectly,  \  fancy 
you  are  largely  concerned  in  it ;  for  it  seems  from  Mr. 
Taylor's  account  that  General  Hawley  was  very  glad  to 
have  me  do  the  work,  and  I  fancy  this  must  have  been 
owing  much  to  the  reputation  which  you  set  a-rolling  so 
recently. 

i  If  you  should  see  anything  about  the  India  papers,  I 
particularly  desire  to  get  it :  for  I  fancy  that  Mr.  Kirk 
was  not  quite  as  pleased  with  them  as  with  other  works 
of  mine,  and  I  would  therefore  hail  any  sign  of  their 
popularity. t  I  do  not  have  time  to  read  any  papers; 
life  is  getting  so  full  to  me  that  I  scarcely  know  how 

of  July.  Of  course  I  did  not  presume  to  act  without  the  best 
advice  I  could  get.  My  warm,  patriotic,  and  eminently  unselfish 
adviser  and  friend  in  the  matter  was  Bayard  Taylor.  I  easily 
selected  Theodore  Thomas  to  take  charge  of  the  music,  and  a 
great  orchestra  and  a  great  chorus  were  secured.  I  wanted  a 
hymn  from  Lowell,  who  *  begged  off,'  as  the  phrase  is,  or  Whittier. 
I  visited  both,  and  finally  secured  Mr.  Whittier,  who  wrote  the 
charming  hymn  you  may  recollect.  We  then  selected  the  musical 
composers,  Mr.  Paine  and  Mr.  Dudley  Buck,  and  decided,  very 
likely  upon  the  suggestion  of  Thomas,  that  we  should  have  a  can 
tata,  or  some  sort  of  a  composition  of  that  description.  It  was 
Mr.  Taylor  who  first  brought  Mr.  Lanier  to  my  attention.  I  be 
lieve  I  knew  as  much  as  this,  that  there  was  a  promising  writer  of 
that  name.  ^We  were  anxious  to  secure  participation  from  the 
Southern  States.  Mr.  Taylor  and  I  talked  the  matter  over  very 
carefully,  and  he  showed  me,  I  think,  some  writings  of  Mr.  Lanier's, 
but  I  relied  very  largely  upon  his  judgment,  and  decided  to  in 
vite  Mr.  Lanier.  We  were  all  of  us  always  glad  that  we  had 
done  so.  The  Cantata  was  somewhat  unusual  in  style  and  char 
acter  ;  that  is  to  say,  it  was  original,  but  it  was  charmingly  so,  and 
both  Buck  and  Thomas  thought  it  very  remarkably  adapted  to  our 
needs.  I  saw  something  of  Mr.  Lanier,  but  not  much.  What  I 
did  see  impressed  me  very  favorably,  and  I  have  a  very  kind  and 
tender  recollection  of  that  gentleman.") 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          27 

I  am  going  to  win  through  the  next  two  months' 
work. 

After  that,  though,  there  is  a  charming  possibility 
ahead  of  me  which  holds  the  frequent  sight  of  you 
among  its  delights.  (None  of  this  to  be  mentioned  yet.) 
When  Theodore  Thomas  passed  through  here  a  few  days 
ago,  to  my  great  surprise  he  told  me  that  his  orchestra 
would  probably  be  increased  during  the  summer,  and 
that  he  would  like  me  to  take  the  additional  flute  in  it. 
I  had  played  several  duos  with  his  first  flute,  —  Wehner, 
—  and  it  is  to  his  voluntary  recommendation  that  I  owe 
the  offer.  It  would  be  very  charming  for  me ;  <and  is 
such  a  compliment  to  a  player  wholly  untaught  as  I  am,  > 
and  but  recently  out  of  the  country,  that  I  'm  indulging 
myself  in  considerable  gratification  over  it. 

Mr.  Buck  writes  me  that  he  has  now  completed  his 
sketches  for  the  Cantata,  and  is  going  at  once  to  the 
work  of  scoring  it  for  orchestra  and  voices.  He  seems 
immensely  pleased  with  the  text,  and  we  have  gotten  on 
together  with  perfect  harmony  during  the  process  of  fit 
ting  together  the  words  and  the  music,  which  has  been 
wholly  accomplished  by  letter. 

By  the  way,  there  are  two  alterations  which  I  think  I 
have  made  since  your  copy  was  sent  you.  They  are  :  — 

Now  praise  to  God's  oft-granted  grace, 
Now  praise  to  man's  undaunted  f ace  ; 

the  two  underscored  words  having  been  added ;  and  the 
last  four  lines  —  which  did  not  roll  with  enough  majesty  to 
suit  me  —  have  been  entirely  remodelled,  to  read  thus  : 

,  Then,  Music,  from  this  height  of  time  my  Word  unfold: 
In  thy  large  signals  all  men's  hearts  Man's  Heart  behold  : 
Mid-heaven  unroll  thy  chords  as  friendly  flags  unfurled, 
And  wave  the  world's  best  lover's  welcome  to  the  world. 


28  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Pray  make  these  alterations  in  your  copy.  Also  in 
the  Huguenot  stanza,  instead  of  "  Toil  e'en  when  brother- 
wars,"  write  "Toil  when  wild  brother- wars,"  etc.  So, 
God  bless  you  both. 

BALTIMORE,  April  11,  1876. 

By  a  miraculous  burst  of  hard  work  since  early  this 
morning,  I  've  managed  to  get  ready  a  few  minutes  be 
fore  time  for  me  to  start,  and  I  devote  those  to  sending 
you  a  line  which  may  convey  to  you  how  sorry  I  was  to 
miss  you  yesterday.  You  will  care  to  know  that  Mr.  Kirk 
gave  me  three  hundred  dollars  for  the  poem,1  but  that 
includes  book- copyright  and  all.  Write  me  at  Exchange 
Hotel,  Montgomery,  Ala.  If  you  only  knew  what  an 
uplifting  you  have  always  been  to  your  friend, 

S.  L.! 

MACON,  GA.,  April  27,  1876. 

May  and  I  ran  over  here  yesterday  from  Montgomery, 
Ala.,  where  I  have  been  spending  the  time  since  I  saw 
you,  with  my  brother's  family  and  my  own.  My  father 
lives  here ;  and  we  are  to  remain  about  five  days,  when 
May  returns  to  the  children  at  Montgomery,  and  I 
hasten  back  to  Philadelphia.  I  therefore  hope  to  see 
you  within  a  week. 

v  I  've  been  such  a  subject  and  helpless  victim  of  ova 
tion  among  the  good  people  of  these  regions  that  the 
time  has  never  seemed  to  come  when  I  could  answer 
your  good  letter.  The  Southern  people  make  a  great 
deal  more  of  my  appointment  to  write  the  Cantata  poem 
than  I  had  ever  expected,  and  it  really  seems  to  be  re 
garded  by  them  as  one  of  the  most  substantial  tokens  of 

1  "  Psalm  of  the  West,"  Lippincott's  Magazine,  June,  1876. 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          29 

reconciliation  yet  evinced  by  that  vague  tertium  quid 
which  they  are  accustomed  to  represent  to  themselves 
under  the  general  term  of  "  the  North."  i  I  am  aston 
ished,  too,  to  find  what  a  hold  "  Corn  "  has  taken  upon 
all  classes.  Expressions  come  to  me,  in  great  number, 
from  men  whom  I  never  supposed  accessible  by  any 
poetry  whatever;  and  these  recognitions  arrive  hand 
[-in-hand]  with  those  from  persons  of  the  highest  cul 
ture.  The  "  Tribune  "  notice  of  the  Cantata  has  been 
copied  by  a  great  many  Southern  papers,  and  I  think 
it  materially  assisted  in  starting  the  poem  off  properly ; 
though  the  people  here  are  so  enthusiastic  in  my  favor 
at  present  that  they  are  quite  prepared  to  accept  blindly 
anything  that  comes  from  me.  Of  course  I  understand 
all  this,  and  any  success  seems  cheap  which  depends 
so  thoroughly  on  local  pride  as  does  my  present  position 
with  the  South ;  yet,  in  view  of  the  long  and  bitter 
struggle  which  I  must  make  up  my  mind  to  wage  in 
carrying  out  those  extensions  of  poetic  Forms  about 
which  all  my  thoughts  now  begin  to  converge,  it  is 
pleasant  to  find  that  I  have  at  least  the  nucleus  of  an 
audience  which  will  be  willing  to  receive  me  upon  the 
plane  of  mere  blind  faith  until  time  shall  have  given  a 
more  scientific  basis  to  their  understandings./ 

I  have  seen  a  quotation  (in  the  Baltimore  "  Bulletin," 
which  indignantly  takes  up  the  cudgel  in  my  behalf)  of 

one  sentence  from  "  The  ,"  which  makes  me  suppose 

that  I  have  had  a  harsh  reception  from  the  New  York 
papers  generally,  in  the  matter  of  the  Cantata  text. 

The  "Bulletin"  represents  "The "  as  saying  that  the 

poem  is  like  "  a  communication  from  the  spirit  of  Nat 
Lee  through  a  Bedlamite  medium."  Nothing  rejoices 
me  more  than  the  inward  perception  how  utterly  the 


30  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

time,  and  the  frame  of  mind,  are  passed  by  in  which 
anything  of  this  sort  gives  me  the  least  disturbance. 
Six  months  ago  this  would  have  hurt  me,  even  against 
my  will.  Now  it  seems  only  a  little  grotesque  episode, 
—  just  as  when  a  few  minutes  ago  I  sat  in  my  father's 
garden,  here,  and  heard  a  catbird  pause,  in  the  midst 
of  the  most  exquisite  roulades  and  melodies,  to  mew,  — 
and  then  take  up  his  song  again. 

What  a  fearsome  long  screed,  —  and  all  about  Me  ! 
But  it  is  not  with  the  least  malice  prepense  :  you  are  to 
reflect  that  I  Ve  just  stolen  away,  from  a  half-dozen 
engagements,  to  my  father's  office,  in  an  unspeakable 
spring  morning,  to  send  you  a  little  message  out  of  my 
heart,  —  wherein,  truly,  whenever  I  think  of  you,  there 
is  always  instantly  born  a  spring  full  of  gardens,  and  of 
song-birds  that  never  mew. 

I  hope  so  soon  to  kiss  the  hands  of  your  two  ladies 
that  I  send  no  further  messages  now  save  the  old  one 
that  I  am  always  their  and  your  friend,  S.  L. 

WEST  CHESTER,  PA.,  October  4,   1876. 

I  had  expected  to  be  in  Philadelphia  to-day,  and  to 
answer  your  kind  inquiries  in  person.  But  some  of 
those  hateful  things  mildly  called  circumstances  beyond 
one's  control  prevented,  and  I  send  a  note  to  say  how 
much  obliged  we  have  been  by  your  thoughtful  com 
munications  from  Brunswick.  Our  advices  from  Mr. 
Day,1  which  had  been  delayed  in  some  way,  now  arrive 
regularly. 

I  returned  from  Baltimore  late  on  Saturday.  Mr. 
Gilman,  President  of  Johns  Hopkins  University,  received 
me  with  great  cordiality.  I  took  tea  with  him  on  Thurs- 

1  Mrs.  Lanier's  father. 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          31 

day,  and  he  devoted  his  entire  evening  to  discussing 
with  me  some  available  method  of  connecting  me  with 
the  University  officially.  The  main  difficulty  was  in 
adjusting  the  special  work  which  I  wish  to  do  to  the 
existing  scheme  of  the  institution.  I  found  that  Mr. 
Oilman  was  familiar  with  all  my  poems,  and  he  told 
me  that  he  had  thought  of  inviting  me  to  a  position  in 
the  University  last  winter,  but  did  not  know  whether  I 
had  ever  pursued  any  special  studies.  He  had  been 
greatly  attracted  by  the  Cantata,  and  its  defence.  It 
was  finally  agreed  that  a  proposition  should  be  made  to 
the  Trustees  to  create  for  me  a  sort  of  nondescript  chair 
of  "  Poetry  and  Music,"  giving  me  leave  to  shape  my 
lectures  into  any  mould  I  desired.  He  is  to  choose 
whatever  time  may  seem  suitable  to  him,  in  which  to 
broach  the  project,  and  will  then  write  me  the  result. 
I  have  no  doubt  of  his  sincere  desire  for  the  favorable 
consummation  of  the  business;  and  inasmuch  as  the 
most  happy  relations  have  heretofore  existed  between 
him  and  the  Trustees,  it  would  seem  that  the  prospect 
is  good. 

I  am  better  than  when  you  saw  me  last,  but  still  suf 
fering  much  with  cough.  May  is  much  worn  with 
nursing  Harry,  who  has  been  quite  troublesome  of 
nights. 

I  hope  you  are  both  well.  I  'm  trying  hard  to  get 
May  off  to  Philada  again  soon,  for  a  day  and  a  night ; 
the  tonic  of  seeing  or  hearing  anything  beautiful  seems 
to  have  a  wonderful  effect  on  her.  She  joins  in  loving 
messages  to  you  both.  .  .  . 

The  hope  of  filling  that  "  nondescript  chair  of  Poetry 
and  Music  "  hovered  before  Lanier  during  that  summer 


32  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

and  autumn,  but  in  spite  of  Lanier's  fitness  and  of  Pres 
ident  Oilman's  inclination  the  offer  was  not  made. 
Later,  indeed,  three  years  later,  when  the  poet's  sands 
were  almost  run,  the  Trustees  of  the  University  gave 
Lanier  an  appointment,  and  he  delivered  two  courses 
of  lectures  with  such  conspicuous  success  that,  after 
his  death,  Johns  Hopkins  University  honored  him  with 
a  memorial  tablet,  and  has  been  glad  to  be  associated 
with  his  rising  fame. 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock         33 


II 


LANIER'S  connection  with  the  Centennial  Exhibition 
brought  him,  during  the  summer  of  1876,  into  many 
pleasant  relations;  but,  unfortunately,  his  health  de 
clined.  He  passed  several  months  at  West  Chester, 
Pa.,  where  he  wrote  "  Clover  "  and  "The  Waving  of  the 
Corn ; "  and  then,  when  autumn  came,  he  returned 
to  Philadelphia  in  what  seemed  a  dying  condition. 
For  many  weeks  he  was  tenderly  nursed  at  the  Pea 
cocks',  until,  having  regained  a  little  strength,  it  was 
evident  that  he  must  go  South  if  he  would  survive  the 
winter.  Accordingly,  leaving  the  children  behind,  he 
and  his  wife  journeyed  to  Florida  as  fast  as  his  feeble 
ness  permitted.  His  first  note,  written  on  a  postal  card, 
is  dated  "Cedar  Keys,  Fla.,  December  20th,  1876." 
He  says :  "  Through  many  perils  and  adventures  we 
are  so  far  safely  on  our  way,  in  much  better  condition 
than  could  have  been  expected.  We  leave  for  Tampa 
presently.  It  is  about  125  miles  southward;  but  we 
stop  at  Manatee,  and  do  not  reach  Tampa  until  to 
morrow  night,  —  spending  thirty-six  hours  in  the 
steamer.  We  have  been  wishing  all  the  morning  that 
you  might  pace  these  white  sands  with  us,  in  the 
heavenly  weather.  Will  write  you  immediately  from 
Tampa." 

TAMPA,  FLA.,  December  27,  1876. 

On  arriving  here  we  find  that  your  friendship  has  as 
usual  anticipated  us.  May  and  I,  strolling  down  to  the 

3 


34  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Post-office  to  rent  a  box,  and  not  daring  to  think  of 
letters,  are  told  by  the  clerk  that  he  thinks  there  is 
something  for  us,  —  and  the  something  turns  out  to  be 
your  pleasant  budget  which  we  incontinently  open  and 
devour,  sitting  down  on  the  steps  of  the/ Post-office  for 
that  purpose,  to  the  wonderment  of  the  natives.  Your 
news  of  our  dear  manikins  is  the  first  we  have  had,  and 
is  a  fair  gift  for  our  Christmas.  .  .  . 

•The  letters  you  sent  were  all  pleasant  in  one  way  or 
another.  One  is  from  H.  M.  Alden,  Editor  "  Harper's 
Magazine,"  enclosing  check  for  fifteen  dollars  and 
accepting  the  poem  ("  The  Waving  of  the  Corn  ")  sent 
him  by  me  through  Bayard  Taylor.  Another  is  a  very 
cordial  letter  from  "  Geo.  C.  Eggleston,  Literary  Editor 
Evening  Post,"  making  tender  of  brotherhood  to  me  in 
a  really  affectionate  way,  and  declaring  that  "  the  keen 
delight  with  which  he  recently  read  my  volume  of  poems 
sharpens  the  pang  he  feels  in  knowing  that  one  in  whose 
work  he  sees  so  rich  a  promise  lies  on  a  bed  of  illness."  > 

The  postal  card  is  from  Gilder,  whom  I  had  requested 
to  make  a  slight  addition  to  my  article  on  "The 
Orchestra"  in  Scribner's. 

The  fourth  letter  is,  as  you  guessed,  from  Emma 
Stebbins,  and  I  enclose  it  for  you  to  read.  It  seems 
from  the  last  portion  of  it  that  she  has  quite  abandoned 
the  idea  of  writing  the  life  of  Charlotte  Cushman,  sub 
stituting  for  that  the  project  of  merely  printing  a 
Memorial  Volume.1 

1  Miss  Stebbins  subsequently  published  a  life  of  Miss  Cush 
man  (Boston  :  Houghton,  Osgood  &  Co.,  1878).  This  work  had 
been  assigned  to  Lanier,  and  a  contract  made  by  him  with  the 
publishers,  when  the  illness  of  Miss  Stebbins,  who  was  to  cull 
material  from  letters  accessible  to  her  alone,  caused  Miss  Cush- 
man's  family  to  cancel  the  engagement. 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          35 

The  "  Bulletin  "  with  the  notice  you  mention  has  not 
yet  arrived.  I  am  very  much  pleased  that  the  "  Psalm 
of  the  West "  has  given  Mrs.  Champney  a  text  to  preach 
from.  One  begins  to  add  to  the  intrinsic  delight  of 
prophet-hood  the  less  lonesome  joy  of  human  helpful 
ness  —  when  one  finds  the  younger  poets  resting  upon 
one  for  a  support  and  buttress  in  this  way. 

You  will  be  glad  to  know  that  we  are  situated  much 
more  comfortably  than  we  could  have  hoped.  Tampa 
is  the  most  forlorn  collection  of  little  one-story  frame 
houses  imaginable,  and  as  May  and  I  walked  behind 
our  landlord,  who  was  piloting  us  to  the  Orange  Grove 
Hotel,  our  hearts  fell  nearer  and  nearer  towards  the 
sand  through  which  we  dragged.  But  presently  we 
turned  a  corner,  and  were  agreeably  surprised  to  find 
ourselves  in  front  of  a  large  three-story  house  with 
many  odd  nooks  and  corners,  altogether  clean  and 
comfortable  in  appearance,  and  surrounded  by  orange- 
trees  in  full  fruit.  We  have  a  large  room  in  the  second 
story,  opening  upon  a  generous  balcony  fifty  feet  long, 
into  which  stretch  the  liberal  arms  of  a  fine  orange-tree, 
holding  out  their  fruitage  to  our  very  lips.  In  front  is 
a  sort  of  open  plaza,  containing  a  pretty  group  of 
gnarled  live  oaks  full  of  moss  and  mistletoe. 

/They  have  found  out  my  public  character  already: 
somebody  who  had  travelled  with  me  recognized  me  on 
the  street  yesterday  and  told  mine  host.  He  and  bis 
wife  are  all  kindness,  having  taken  a  fancy,  I  imagine, 
to  my  sweet  angel  May.  They  have  just  sent  up  a 
lovely  bunch  of  roses  and  violets  from  the  garden,  — 
a  sentimental  attention  which  finds  a  pleasant  parallel  in 
the  appearance  of  a  servant  at  our  door  before  breakfast 
to  inquire  whether  we  prefer  our  steak  fried  or  broiled. ^ 


3  6  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

The  weather  is  perfect  summer,  and  I  luxuriate  in 
great  draughts  of  balmy  air  uncontaminated  with  city- 
smokes  and  furnace-dusts.  This  has  come  not  a 
moment  too  soon ;  for  the  exposures  of  the  journey  had 
left  my  poor  lung  in  most  piteous  condition.  I  am 
now  better,  however;  and  May  is  in  good  case,  except 
that  the  languid  air  takes  the  spring  from  her  step,  and 
inclines  her  much  to  laziness.  .  .  . 

We  have  three  mails  a  week:  two  by  stage  from 
Gainesville  (which  is  on  the  railroad  from  Fernandina 
to  Cedar  Keys)  and  one  by  steamer  from  Cedar  Keys. 
Address  me  simply  "Tampa,  Fla."  I  have  a  box 
(No.  8: — I  don't  think  there  are  more  than  twenty- 
five  or  thirty  in  all)  at  the  Post-office,  and  the  clerk 
knows  me  :  as  in  fact  everybody  else  does,  —  a  stranger 
is  a  stranger  in  Tampa.  .  .  . 

(Over.) 

DEAR  MR.  PEACOCK  :  Sidney  has  forgotten  my  mes 
sage —  which  entreated  Mrs.  Peacock  (Heaven  bless 
her!)  to  consider  my  letters  unanswerable.  You  are 
one  in  our  thoughts  and  affections,  and  we  are  content 
to  hear  from  either  of  you.  And  I  am  so  selfish  as  to 
wish  that  she  should  always  be  glad  when  my  poor 
letters  come.  When  you  see  Dr.  Lippe  pray  give  him 
our  best  regards  and  say  that  we  will  write  as  soon  as 
we  have  had  time  to  know  how  Sidney  is. 

Your  loving  MARY  D.  L. 

P.  S.  No.  15.  I  enclose  the  two  receipts  for  the 
silver:  Robbins'  and  the  Trust  Company's.  We  will 
write  about  it  some  future  time  :  meantime  as  to  the 
set  at  Robbins',  place  it  wherever  you  like.  S.  L. 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          37 

TAMPA,  December  31,  1876. 

I  am  writing  a  line  to  send  you  both  a  New  Year's 
kiss  from  us  two.  We  have  had  a  great  change  in  the 
weather :  a  couple  of  days  ago  the  hyperborean  blasts 
turned  our  pretty  summer  quite  out  of  doors,  and  we 
have  had  for  thirty-six  hours  a  temperature  which 
reminds  us  very  forcibly  of  a  New  Year's  Day  at  the 
North.  As  we  sit  over  our  blazing  knots  of  "  fat  light- 
wood  "  we  think  with  double  vividness  of  your  two  dear 
faces,  and  wish  that  they  were  by  ours  or  ours  by 
them.  .  .  . 

The  Magazine  has  arrived,  and  your  lovely  notice  of 
my  little  "  Evening  Song  "  l  gives  me  genuine  pleasure. 
I  see  too  that  the  poem  has  smitten  the  hitherto-invul 
nerable  R.  Shelton  McKenzie  under  the  fifth  rib.  This 
is  a  triumph  indeed.  The  "  Bulletin  "  with  the  notice  from 
the  "  Evening  Post  "  has  also  arrived.  The  letter  from 
"  Lippincott's  "  which  you  forwarded  was  an  enclosure 
of  check  for  ten  dollars  for  the  "  Evening  Song." 

May  is  doing  well ;  and  I,  with  some  setbacks,  am 
on  the  whole  improving.  I  have  found  a  shaggy  gray 
mare  upon  whose  back  I  thrid  the  great  pine  forests 
daily,  much  to  my  delight.  Nothing  seems  so  restora 
tive  to  me  as  a  good  gallop.  We  have  now  only  two 
mails  a  week,  and  these  take  a  long  time  to  go  and 
come.  If  there  should  ever  be  any  occasion  to  telegraph 
us,  a  despatch  can  be  sent  to  Tuckertown  (which  is  on 
the  telegraph  line,  thirty  miles  from  here),  whence  the 
operators  will,  if  so  requested,  forward  it  by  courier  on 
horseback  to  Tampa. 

I  sent  you  the  two  silver  receipts  by  last  mail.  For 
ward  me  whatever  you  happen  to  see  about  the  little 
1  Printed  in  "  Lippincott's  Magazine,"  January,  1877. 


38  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Song :  I  wish  to  send  the  notices  to  Dudley  Buck,  who 
has  set  this  poem  to  music.  God  bless  you  both,  —  say 
May  and  S.  L. 

TAMPA,  FLA.,  January  17,  1877. 

I  wrote  you  immediately  upon  arriving  here,  enclosing 
the  two  receipts  for  the  silver ;  and  I  believe  some  sort 
of  greeting  has  gone  from  one  of  us  to  one  of  you  by 
nearly  every  mail,  since  our  arrival.  I  only  mention  this 
because  our  Florida  mail  arrangements  are  of  the  very 
slowest  description,  and,  as  we  have  yet  had  nothing  from 
you  written  since  any  of  our  communications  reached 
you,  we  presume  the  latter  have  taken  the  very  uttermost 
limit  of  time  in  getting  to  you. 

We  fare  slowly  on,  in  health.  May  has  been  very 
much  affected  by  the  warm  weather  which  has  prevailed 
for  the  past  two  weeks,  and  suffers  much  from  lassitude 
with  some  appearance  of  malarial  symptoms.  I  think 
my  lung  is  healing  gradually,  and  although  I  have  a  great 
deal  of  hoarseness,  it  does  not  seem  to  be  attended  with 
any  other  serious  accompaniment.  I  certainly  improve 
in  strength,  though  pulled  down,  as  indeed  are  all  the 
healthy  people  about  us,  by  the  languorous  summer 
temperature. 

I  think  we  will  have  to  sell  the  silver ;  if  you  can  get 
$350  for  it,  it  may  go  at  that.  Possibly  we  will  sell  it  for 
old  silver,  after  a  while,  at  $200  :  but  I  would  be  glad 
if  you  would  see  whether  any  silver  dealer  with  whom 
you  should  leave  it  (after  Robbins)  can  get  an  offer  of 

$350-  •  •  • 

I  am  writing  in  haste,  having  come  in  from  a  ride, 
horseback,  just  as  the  mail  is  about  to  close.  .  .  . 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          39 

TAMPA,  FLA.,  March  25,  1877. 

MY  DEAREST  MARIA  PEACOCK  :  .  .  .  I  wish  we  were 
spending  this  March  day  in  your  dear  little  Brown  Study 
with  you.  I  have  an  inexpressible  longing  to  see  you 
when  you  will  not  be  —  as  during  that  last  month  — 
anxious  at  heart  on  my  account.  This  might  now  very 
well  be;  for  although  many  breaks  and  exasperating 
interruptions  have  chequered  my  progress  since  I  came 
here,  yet  in  comparing  my  present  condition  with  the 
state  I  was  in  when  I  left  you,  no  room  is  left  for  doubt 
that  my  lung  is  certainly  healing,  and  that  the  rest  is 
only  matter  of  time  and  warm  weather. 

We  expect  to  leave  Tampa  on  the  5th  April,  for  Bruns 
wick,  where  we  will  remain  until  May.  Our  after-pro 
gramme  is  to  spend  the  month  of  May  in  Macon,  and 
to  return  to  Philadelphia  in  June.  Consider  that  our 
address,  therefore,  is  changed  to  "  Care  of  Chas.  Day? 
Brunswick,  Ga." 

May  has  been  suffering  much  with  malarial  influences, 
and  I  am  impatient  for  the  time  when  she  may  return 
to  the  bracing  northern  air  which  appears  to  agree 
with  her  so  well.  She  sends  you  all  manner  of  loving 
messages. 

Please  ask  Mr.  Gibson  as  soon  as  the  rest  of  the  silver 
money  comes  in  to  send  for  Dr.  SchelFs  bill,  and  dis 
charge  it.  I  have  been  more  pained  about  the  long 
standing-over  of  it  than  I  can  tell  you.  Did  you  see  my 
"Beethoven"  in  the  "Galaxy"?1  A  bad  misprint  oc 
curred  in  the  punctuation  at  the  end  of  the  eighth  verse, 
where  somebody  inserted  a  semicolon.  In  the  original 
there  is  nothing :  the  two  verses  (8th  and  9th)  being 
intended  to  run  together,  *.  e.  the  luminous  lightnings 

1  "  Beethoven,"  printed  in  the  "  Galaxy  "  for  March,  1877. 


40  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

blindly  strike  the  sailor  praying  on  his  knees  along  with, 
&c.  In  reading  other  articles  in  this  Magazine  I  observe 
that  the  proof  must  have  been  very  badly  read. 

I  have  had  a  very  affectionate  letter  from  Emma 
Stebbins,  enclosing  a  fifty-dollar  bill  which  she  wanted 
to  loan  me. 

My  thoughts  are  much  upon  my  French  poem  —  the 
Jacquerie  outburst  —  in  these  days.  If  Mr.  Hayes  would 
only  appoint  me  consul  somewhere  in  the  south  of 
France ! ! ! 

BRUNSWICK,  GA.,  April  26,  1877. 

If  I  had  as  many  fingers  as  your  astounding  servant- 
maid,  and  each  one  could  wield  a  pen  separately,  I  still 
would  n't  be  able  to  write  the  fair  messages  which  con 
tinually  construct  themselves  in  my  heart  to  you  both. 
That  such  a  very  pitiful  fraction  of  these  has  actually 
reached  you  during  the  last  few  weeks  is  due  to  mine  an 
cient  infirmity  in  the  matter  of  driving  the  quill,  and  to 
May's  constant  occupation  with  her  father  and  brother. 
These  poor  lonely  men  live  here  in  a  house  to  themselves 
with  no  women  or  children  about  them ;  and  when  May 
comes  with  her  bright  ways  and  intelligent  sympathies 
she  has  both  hands,  lips,  and  heart  very  busy  from  morn 
ing  till  night. 

I  suppose  you  Ve  seen  a  little  extravaganza  of  mine  in 
"  St.  Nicholas  "  for  May.  The  proof-sheets  were  sent  me 
at  Tampa,  and  I  promptly  corrected  and  returned  them  : 
but  they  seem  not  to  have  arrived  in  time,  and  I  desolate 
myself  at  finding  some  miserable  repetitions  and  awkward 
expressions,  which  I  had  carefully  amended,  appearing 
nevertheless, — beside  some  very  bad  punctuation  sys 
tematically  interpolated  all  the  way  through  by  some  other 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          41 

hand  than  mine.  The  illustrations  are  charming,  how 
ever,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  to  write  a  special  letter  of 
thanks  to  Mr.  Bensell  for  the  evident  care  he  has  taken. 
The  story  I  meant  to  be  only  such  an  incongruous 
melange  as  one  might  "  make  up  as  he  went  along  "  for 
a  lot  of  children  about  his  knees ;  and  its  very  intentional 
incongruities  must  have  been  serious  stumbling-blocks  to 
the  engraver. 

I  sincerely  regret  the  continued  illness  of  Mr.  Wells.1 
He  was  so  full  of  life  and  so  overbrimming  with  his 
quips  and  his  quiddities,  that  I  can  scarcely  realize  him 
as  a  sick  man.  Pray  send  him  my  cordial  greetings  when 
you  write,  with  my  earnest  wishes  for  his  speedy  recovery. 

I  wrote  Mrs.  Peacock  just  before  we  left  Tampa.  We 
remain  here  until  the  fifth  of  May;  after  which  our 
address  will  be  "  Macon,  Ga."  We  think  to  spend  a 
month  there ;  and  then,  if  I  continue  to  improve,  to 
make  our  way  back  northward,  i  I  can't  tell  you  how 
famished  I  am  for  the  Orchestra :  an  imperious  hunger 
drives  me  towards  it.  ) 

We  both  send  a  kiss  to  you  both.  If  Miss  Phelps  is 
with  you,  we  '11  put  in  two,  mine  being  particularly  by 
way  of  response  for  her  kind  note.  I  long  to  see 
you  all. 

MACON,  GA.,  May  26,  1877. 

/They  have  had  a  family  gathering  here  to  meet  me; 
and  what  with  fondling  numerous  new  babies  that  have 
arrived  since  I  last  met  the  parents  thereof,  and  with 
much  talk  of  matters  high  and  low,  I  have  not  found 
time  to  send  my  love  to  you.  /  I  have  gained  greatly  in 
strength  within  the  last  three  weeks,  and  although  I  have 

1  Francis  Wells,  assistant  editor  of  the  "  Evening  Bulletin." 


42  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

still  much  discomfort  at  times  I  feel  perfectly  sure  that  I 
have  quite  got  the  upper  hand  of  this  particular  attack  at 
least.  We  propose  to  start  for  Philadelphia  within  two 
weeks  from  now,  waiting  so  long  only  to  be  sure  of  es 
caping  any  possible  caprice  of  this  very  variable  Spring. 
The  prospect  of  speedily  turning  northward  gives  us,  as 
you  can  imagine,  great  delight :  for  it  is  a  prospect  which 
holds  in  its  "  middle  distance  "  you  two,  and  our  dear 
monkeys  for  whom  our  arms  are  fairly  hungry. 

%I  long  to  be  steadily  writing  again.  I  'm  taken  with 
a  poem  pretty  nearly  every  day,  and  have  to  content 
myself  with  making  a  note  of  its  train  of  thought  on 
the  back  of  whatever  letter  is  in  my  coat-pocket./  I 
don't  write  it  out,  because  I  find  my  poetry  now  wholly 
unsatisfactory  in  consequence  of  a  certain  haunting  im 
patience  which  has  its  root  in  the  straining  uncertainty 
of  my  daily  affairs ;  and  I  am  trying  with  all  my  might 
to  put  off  composition  of  all  sorts  until  some  approach 
to  the  certainty  of  next  week's  dinner  shall  remove  this 
remnant  of  haste,  and  leave  me  that  repose  which  ought 
to  fill  the  artist's  firmament  while  he  is  creating. 
Perhaps  indeed  with  returning  bodily  health  I  shall 
acquire  strength  to  attain  this  serenity  in  spite  of  all 
contingencies. 

Address  me  here  if  you  write  within  the  next  ten 
days.  May  would  send  a  kiss  to  you  both  if  she  knew 
I  was  writing.  Cordial  greetings  to  Miss  Phelps  if 
she  is  now  with  you.  I  hope  Mr.  Wells  continues  to 
improve. 

40  MT.  VERNON  PLACE,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 
June  13,  1877. 

I  am  really  distressed  to  know  that  you  should  have 
spent  your  day  at  Washington  in  the  unprofitable  busi- 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          43 

ness  of  pottering  about  those  dreary  Departments  in 
my  behalf :  but  I  won't  lecture  you  for  your  unearthly 
goodness  to  me. 

May  and  I  are  to  go  to  Washington  next  Monday,  to 
visit  Judge  Advocate  General  Dunn,  who  is  a  son-in-law 
of  my  kinsman  J.  F.  D.  Lanier  (of  New  York),  and 
who  has  extended  a  very  cordial  invitation  to  us.  We 
will  also  meet  there  General  Humphreys,  Chief  of  the 
Engineer  Corps,  who  is  an  old  friend  of  May's  mother, 
and  has  always  made  a  great  pet  of  May  herself.  v  It 
seems  like  stretching  our  hearts  to  stay  away  from  the 
boys  longer;  yet  we  have  determined  finally  to  do  it, 
inasmuch  as  we  do  not  know  when  we  will  have  another 
opportunity  to  meet  these  friends.* 

As  for  the  "  application :  "  you  must  know,  my  dear 
good  Friend,  that  all  that  matter  was  gotten  up  without 
my  knowledge,  and  has  been  carried  on  by  my  father 
and  Mr.  Lanier  of  New  York.  When  they  finally  wrote 
to  me  of  it,  I  replied  (after  a  great  struggle  which  I  have 
not  the  heart  to  detail  to  you)  that  inasmuch  as  I  had 
never  been  a  party  man  of  any  sort  I  did  not  see  with 
what  grace  I  could  ask  any  appointment;  and  that, 
furthermore,  I  could  not  see  it  to  be  delicate,  on  gen 
eral  principles,  for  me  to  make  personal  application  for 
any  particular  office  :  but  that  I  would  be  grateful  if  they 
would  simply  cause  my  name  to  be  mentioned  to  the 
proper  persons  as  that  of  a  person  who  might  be  suit 
able  for  certain  classes  of  appointments,  and  that  I 
would  accept  with  pleasure  any  result  of  such  an  appli 
cation.  This  has  been  done  :  my  name  has  been  men 
tioned  to  Mr.  Sherman 1  (and  to  Mr.  Evarts,2  I  believe) 

1  Secretary  of  the  Treasury. 

2  Secretary  of  State. 


44  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

by  quite  cordially  disposed  persons.  But  I  do  not  think 
any  formal  application  has  been  entered,  —  though  I  do 
not  know.  I  hope  not :  for  then  the  reporters  will  get 
hold  of  it,  and  I  scarcely  know  what  I  should  do  if  I 
should  see  my  name  figuring  alongside  of  Jack  Brown's 
and  Foster  Blodgett's  and  the  others  of  my  native 
State,  —  as  would  quickly  be  the  case. 

But  I  can  speak  of  all  this  when  I  see  you.  It  will  be 
probably  nine  or  ten  days  before  I  have  that  pleasure, 
—  even  if  you  shall  have  returned  to  Philada  by  that 
time.  Pray  send  me  a  line  (see  address,  above  date  of 
this  letter)  to  let  me  know  your  motions.  .  .  .  Don't  think 
me  finical,  and  don't  think  me  anything  but  your  faithful 

S.  L. 

CHADD'S  FORD,  PA.,  August  7,  1877. 

This  is  but  an  hour  old ;  and  after  sending  it  off  to 
Harper's,  I  've  made  a  hasty  copy  for  you,  thinking 
you  would  care  to  see  it.  The  poor  dove  whose  sorrow 
it  commemorates  wakes  me  every  morning,  calling  from 
the  lovely  green  woods  about  us. 

We  are  charmed  with  our  place.  I  myself  have  rather 
too  much  pot-boiling  to  improve  much,  but  the  boys  are 
having  a  royal  time.  May  sends  a  kiss  to  you  both,  as 
does  your  faithful  S.  L. 

[Enclosure.] 
THE   DOVE:  A   SONG.i 

If  thou,  if  thou,  O  blue  and  silver  Morn, 
Should'st  call  along  the  curving  sphere :  "  Remain, 

Sweet  Night,  my  Love  !     Nay,  leave  me  not  forlorn  !  " 
With  soft  halloos  of  heavenly  love  and  pain :  — 

1  First  printed,  with  many  changes,  in  "  Scribner's  Magazine," 
May,  1878. 


A  Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          45 

Should'st  them,  past  Spring,  a-cower  in  coverts  dark, 
'Gainst  proud  supplanting  Summer  sing  thy  plea 

And  move  the  mighty  woods  through  mailed  bark 
Till  tender  heartbreak  throb  in  every  tree  :  — 

(Ah,  grievous  If,  wilt  turn  to  Yea  full  soon  ?  ) 

—  If  thou,  my  Heart,  long  holden  from  thy  Love, 
Should'st  beat  and  burn  in  mellow  shocks  of  tune  :  — 

—  Each  might  but  mock  yon  deep-sequestered  dove ! 

CHADD'S  FORD,  PA.,  September  8,  1877. 
I  am  called  to  Washington  for  the  purpose  of  pros 
ecuting  my  affairs,  —  which  are  delayed  much  beyond 
expectation,  —  and  am  obliged  to  anticipate  my  in 
come  a  little,  being  out  of  funds  for  a  week.  Please 
loan  me  fifty  dollars,  if  you  can  do  so  without  inconven 
ience  to  yourself.  You  can  send  your  check  payable  to 
my  order.  —  Which  takes  my  breath  away,  and  I  can't 
say  anything  more  now. 

WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  September  27,  1877. 

Yours  was  forwarded  to  me  here.  Just  as  I  received 
your  check,  a  severe  pleuritic  attack  seized  me,  and 
kept  me  in  great  pain  for  ten  days.  I  then  got  up  from 
bed  to  come  here,  in  the  desperate  necessity  to  do  what 
could  be  done.  Last  Monday  at  daylight  an  exhausting 
haemorrhage  came,  which  has  kept  me  confined  to  my 
room  ever  since.  ^In  this  enforced  inactivity,  I  have 
had  nothing  to  return  to  you.  (This  morning  a  check 
comes  from  Lippincott  for  a  little  story  I  sent,  and  I 
enclose  it,  endorsed  to  your  order.  Please  let  me  know 
what  your  address  will  be,  so  that  I  may  send  the  re 
maining  twenty-five  at  the  earliest  possible  moment.  > 

There  does  not  appear  the  least  hope  of  success  here. 
Three  months  ago  the  order  was  given  by  Secretary 


46  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Sherman  that  I  should  have  the  first  vacancy :  but  the 
appointment-clerk,  who  received  the  order,  is  a  singular 
person,  and  I  am  told  there  are  rings  within  rings  in  the 
Department  to  such  an  extent  that  vacancies  are  filled 
by  petty  chiefs  of  division  without  ever  being  reported 
at  all  to  the  proper  officers.  You  will  scarcely  believe 
that,  in  my  overwhelming  desire  to  get  some  routine 
labor  by  which  I  might  be  relieved  from  this  exhausting 
magazine  work  so  as  to  apply  my  whole  mind  to  my 
long  poem  on  which  I  have  been  engaged,  I  have 
allowed  a  friend  to  make  application  to  every  depart 
ment  in  Washington  for  even  the  humblest  position  — 
seventy-five  dollars  a  month  and  the  like  —  but  without 
success.  I  also  made  personal  application ,  to  several 
people  in  Baltimore  for  similar  employment,  but  fruit 
lessly,  x  Altogether  it  seems  as  if  there  was  n't  any  place 
for  me  in  this  world,  and  if  it  were  not  for  May  I  should 
certainly  quit  it,  in  mortification  at  being  so  useless.  ^ 

I  hope  you  will  have  a  pleasant  holiday.  Give  my 
love  to  my  dear  Maria  Peacock,  and  say  how  glad  I  am 
to  think  of  her  long  relief  from  the  household  and  other 
cares  which  give  her  so  much  trouble. 

55  LEXINGTON  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 
November  3,  1877. 

I  have  not  had  the  courage  to  write  you  without  en 
closing  the  check  for  twenty-five  dollars,  which  ought  to 
have  gone  to  you  long  ago.  I  still  have  n't  a  cent  to 
send ;  and  am  writing  only  to  answer  your  inquiries 
whose  kindliness  might  otherwise  go  unacknowledged. 

All  sorts  of  things  were  promised  to  the  friends  who 
were  good  enough  to  intercede  at  Washington  in  my 
behalf:  but  nothing  has  come  of  it.  In  truth  I  should 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          47 

long  ago  have  abandoned  all  ideas  in  that  direction  and 
resumed  the  thread  of  my  magazine  work,  had  it  not 
been  for  illness  which  prevented  me  from  writing  much, 
and  thus  kept  me  entertaining  some  little  expectation. 
The  haemorrhage,  however,  which  disabled  me  from 
work  temporarily,  has  greatly  relieved  my  lung,  and  I  am 
now  stronger  than  at  any  time  in  the  last  fifteen  months. 
tMy  whole  soul  is  bursting  with  chaotic  poems,  and  I 
hope  to  do  some  good  work  during  the  coming  year.j 

I  have  found  it  quite  essential  to  my  happiness  and 
health  to  have  some  quarters,  however  rude,  which  I 
could  regard  as  permanent  for  the  next  four  or  five 
years,  instead  of  drifting  about  the  world.  We  have 
therefore  established  ourselves  in  four  rooms,  arranged 
somewhat  as  a  French  Flat,  in  the  heart  of  Baltimore. 
We  have  a  gas-stove,  on  which  my  Comrade  magically 
produces  the  best  coffee  in  the  world,  and  this,  with 
fresh  eggs  (boiled  over  the  same  handy  little  machine), 
bread,  butter,  and  milk,  forms  our  breakfast.  Our  din 
ner  is  sent  to  us  from  a  restaurant  in  the  same  building 
with  our  rooms,  and  is  served  in  our  apartment  without 
extra  charge. 

As  for  my  plans  for  the  future  :  I  have  set  on  foot 
another  attempt  to  get  a  place  in  the  Johns  Hopkins 
University  :  I  also  have  a  prospect  of  employment  as  an 
assistant  at  the  Peabody  Library  here ;  and  there  is  still 
a  possibility  of  a  committee-clerkship  in  Washington. 
Meantime,  however,  I  am  just  resuming  work  for  the 
editors  :  my  nearest  commission  is  to  write  a  Christmas 
poem  for  "  Every  Saturday,"  an  ambitious  new  weekly 
paper  just  started  in  Baltimore.  The  editor  wishes  to 
illustrate  the  poem  liberally  and  use  it  as  an  advertise 
ment  by  making  some  fuss  over  it. 


48  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

There !  You  have  a  tolerable  abstract  of  my  past, 
present,  and  future.  .  .  .  Have  you  seen  my  Wagner 
poem  in  the  November  "  Galaxy  "  ?  I  have  not;  and,  as  it 
was  much  involved,  and  as  I  did  n't  see  any  proof-sheet, 
and  as  finally  the  "  Galaxy's  "  proof-reader  is  notoriously 
bad,  —  I  suspect  it  is  a  pretty  muddle  of  nonsense. 
And  so,  God  bless  you  both. 

55  LEXINGTON  ST.,  BALTIMORE, 
December  3,  1877. 

Your  letter  was  heartily  received  by  May  and  me,  and 
the  stamps  brought  acclamations  from  the  three  young 
men  at  the  breakfast- table.  We  had  been  talking  of 
you  more  than  usual  for  several  days;  and  May  had  been 
recalling  that  wonderful  Thanksgiving  Day  a  year  ago 
when  the  kindness  of  you  and  my  dear  Maria  seemed 
to  culminate  in  the  mysterious  Five-hundred-dollar-bill 
which  came  up  on  the  breakfast-tray.  What  a  couple 
you  are,  anyhow:  you  and  that  same  Maria  with  the 
Cape-jessamine-textured  throat ! 

I  indulged  in  a  haemorrhage  immediately  after  reach 
ing  home,  which  kept  me  out  of  the  combat  for  ten  days. 
I  then  plunged  in  and  brought  captive  forth  a  long 
Christmas  poem 1  for  "  Every  Saturday,"  an  ambitious 
young  weekly  of  Baltimore.  Have  you  seen  my  "  Puzzled 
Ghost  in  Florida,"  in  "  AppletonV  "  for  December?  .  .  . 

We  had  another  key  to  the  silver  chest.  It  contained 
a  second  set  of  old  family  plate,  which  we  now  use  daily 
and  in  which  we  take  great  comfort.  There  are  no 
other  papers  concerning  it. 

I  hope  you  had  a  pleasant  visit  in  New  York.  .  .  . 
I  've  just  received  a  letter  from  Emma  Stebbins.  She  is 

1  "  Hard  Times  in  Elfland." 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          49 

at  the  Cushmans',  in  Newport,  and  much  improved  in 
health.  She  has  finished  six  chapters  of  her  book  on 
Miss  Cushman,  and  may  have  it  ready  for  the  publishers 
by  next  fall. 

Wife  and  I  have  been  out  to  look  at  a  lovely  house 
to-day,  with  eight  rooms  and  many  charming  appliances, 
which  we  find  we  can  rent  for  less  than  we  now  pay  for 
our  four  rooms.  We  think  of  taking  it  straightway,  and 
will  do  so  if  a  certain  half- hundred  of  dollars  for  which 
we  hope  reaches  us  in  time.  .  .  . 

33  DENMEAD  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 
January  6,  1878. 

The  painters,  the  whitewashers,  the  plumbers,  the 
locksmiths,  the  carpenters,  the  gas-fitters,  the  stove-put- 
up-ers,  the  carmen,  the  piano-movers,  the  carpet-layers, 
—  all  these  have  I  seen,  bargained  with,  reproached  for 
bad  jobs,  and  finally  paid  off:  I  have  also  coaxed  my 
landlord  into  all  manner  of  outlays  for  damp  walls,  cold 
bath-rooms,  and  other  like  matters :  I  have  furthermore 
bought  at  least  three  hundred  and  twenty-seven  house 
hold  utensils  which  suddenly  came  to  be  absolutely  neces 
sary  to  our  existence  :  I  have  moreover  hired  a  colored 
gentlewoman  who  is  willing  to  wear  out  my  carpets,  burn 
out  my  range,  freeze  out  my  water-pipes,  and  be  gener 
ally  useful :  I  have  also  moved  my  family  into  our  new 
home,  have  had  a  Xmas  tree  for  the  youngsters,  have 
looked  up  a  cheap  school  for  Harry  and  Sidney,  have 
discharged  my  daily  duties  as  first  flute  of  the  Peabody 
Orchestra,  have  written  a  couple  of  poems  and  part  of 
an  essay  on  Beethoven  and  Bismarck,  have  accomplished 
at  least  a  hundred  thousand  miscellaneous  necessary 
nothings,  —  and  have  not,  in  consequence  of  all  the  afore- 

4 


50  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

said,  sent  to  you  and  my  dear  Maria  the  loving  greetings 
whereof  my  heart  has  been  full  during  the  whole  season. 
Maria's  cards  were  duly  distributed,  and  we  were  all 
touched  with  her  charming  little  remembrances.  With 
how  much  pleasure  do  I  look  forward  to  the  time  when 
I  may  kiss  her  hand  in  my  own  house  !  We  are  in  a 
state  of  supreme  content  with  our  new  home  :  it  really 
seems  to  me  as  incredible  that  myriads  of  people  have 
been  living  in  their  own  homes  heretofore  f  as  to  the 
young  couple  with  a  first  baby  it  seems  impossible  that  a 
great  many  other  couples  have  had  similar  prodigies.  It 
is  simply  too  delightful.  \  Good  heavens,  how  I  wish  that 
the  whole  world  had  a  Home  !  ) 

I  confess  I  am  a  little  nervous  about  the  gas-bills, 
which  must  come  in,  in  the  course  of  time ;  and  there 
are  the  water-rates,  and  several  sorts  of  imposts  and 
taxes:  but  then,  the  dignity  of  being  liable  for  such 
things  !  is  a  very  supporting  consideration.  No  man  is 
a  Bohemian  who  has  to  pay  water-rates  and  a  street-tax. 
Every  day  when  I  sit  down  in  .iy  dining-room  —  my 
dining-room  !  —  I  find  the  wish  growing  stronger  that 
each  poor  soul  in  Baltimore,  whether  saint  or  sinner, 
could  come  and  dine  with  me.  How  I  would  carve  out 
the  merry-thoughts  for  the  old  hags  !  How  I  would 
stuff  the  big  wall-eyed  rascals  till  their  rags  ripped  again  ! 
There  was  a  knight  of  old  times  who  built  the  dining- 
hall  of  his  castle  across  the  highway,  so  that  every  way 
farer  must  perforce  pass  through:  there  the  traveller, 
rich  or  poor,  found  always  a  trencher  and  wherewithal 
to  fill  it.  Three  times  a  day,  in  my  own  chair  at  my 
own  table,  do  I  envy  that  knight  and  wish  that  I  might 
do  as  he  did. 

Send  me  some  word  of  you  two.     I  was  in  Philadel- 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          51 

phia  for  part  of  a  night  since  I  saw  you,  being  on  my 
way  to  Germantown  to  see  Mr.  Kirk.  I  had  to  make 
the  whole  visit  between  two  rehearsals  of  the  Orchestra, 
and  so  could  only  run  from  train  to  train  except  be 
tween  twelve  P.  M.  and  six,  which  I  consumed  in  sleep 
ing  at  the  Continental. 

We  all  send  you  heartfelt  wishes  for  the  New  Year. 
May  you  be  as  happy  as  you  are  dear  to  your  faithful 

S.  L. 

33  DENMEAD  ST.,  BALTIMORE, 
January  n,  1878. 

To-morrow  I  will  transfer  to  you  by  telegraph  one 
hundred  and  ten  dollars ;  and  the  remaining  forty, 
I  hope,  on  Monday,  certainly  during  the  five  days 
following. 

I  believe  it  was  last  Sunday  night  that  I  wrote  you : 
on  the  following  morning  I  awoke  with  a  raging  fever, 
and  have  been  in  bed  ever  since,  racked  inexpressibly 
by  my  old  foe,  the  .^leurodynia.  I  have  crawled  out  of 
bed  this  afternoon,  but  must  go  back  soon.  Will  prob 
ably  be  about  again  on  Monday. 

Tortured  as  I  was,  this  morning,  with  a  living  egg  of 
pain  away  in  under  my  collar  bone,  I  shook  till  I  was  at 
least  uniformly  sore  all  over,  with  reading  your  brilliant 
critique  on  the  great  "  artiste  "  Squirt  in  his  magnificent 
impersonation  of  Snooks.  The  last  sentence  nearly 
took  the  top  of  my  head  off.  I  wish  you  would  keep  it 
up  a  little  while,  and  fly  at  the  Metropolis  as  well  as  at 
the  provinces.  For  example  :  "  The  following  contri 
bution  for  our  new  morning  (or  Sunday)  paper  comes 
accompanied  by  a  note  stating  that  the  writer  has  been 
employed  as  funny  editor  of  the  New  York  (anything, 


52  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Universe,  Age,  et  cet.),  but  desires  a  larger  field  of 
usefulness  with  us;  "  and  hereto  you  might  append  an 
imitation  of  the  humorous  column  of  "  The  World,"  for 
instance,  in  which  anything  under  heaven  is  taken  as  a 
caption,  and  the  editorial  then  made  up  of  all  the 
possible  old  proverbs,  quotations,  popular  sayings,  and 
slang  which  have  a  word,  or  even  a  syllable,  in  common 
with  the  text. 

Or  you  might  give  an  exact  reproduction  (the  more 
exact,  the  more  ludicrous)  of  one  of  those  tranquilly 

stupid  political  editorials  in  "The ,"  which  seem  as 

massive  as  the  walls  of  Troy,  and  are  really  nothing  but 
condensations  of  arrogant  breath. 

But  of  course  you  worit  do  anything  of  the  sort,  for 
why  embroil  yourself?  and  I  'm  only  forecasting  what 
might  be  done  in  a  better  world. 

We  all  send  our  love  to  you  and  Maria.  May  is 
pretty  well  fagged  with  nursing  me,  plus  the  house 
keeping  cares. 

BALTIMORE,  MD.,  January  30,  1878. 

It's  no  use  trying  to  tell  you  the  bitterness  with  which 
I  found  myself  a  couple  of  days  behindhand  with  that 
hundred.  I  was  in  bed,  ill,  and  was  depending  on  a 
friend  who  had  promised  to  come  by  my  house  and 
transact  this  along  with  some  other  business  for  me 
down  town.  He  was  prevented  from  coming  as  ex 
pected,  and  I  was  without  remedy.  I  enclose  P.  O. 
order  for  twenty-five.  The  balance  will  go  to  you  soon. 
Please  don't  despair  of  me.  My  illness  was  a  complete 
marplot  to  all  my  plans  for  a  month  or  more. 

I  came  ^  through  Pha  night  before  last,  on  my  way 
home  from  New  York.  I  ran  round  to  see  you,  but 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          53 

you  had  gone  to  the  theatre.  Next  morning  I  was 
compelled  to  hurry  home  without  the  pleasure  of  kissing 
my  dear  Maria's  hand :  our  Peabody  Orchestra  meets 
at  five  in  the  afternoon,  and  I  was  obliged  to  reach 
Baltimore  in  time  for  that. 

i  We  are  all  in  tolerable  condition,  greatly  enjoying 
our  crude  half-furnished  home.  I  have  been  mainly  at 
work  on  some  unimportant  prose  matter  for  pot-boilers ; 
but  I  get  off  a  short  poem  occasionally,  and  in  the 
background  of  my  mind  am  writing  my  Jacquerie./ 

It  is  very  thoughtful  of  you  to  send  the  "  Bulletin."  I 
did  not  know  it  was  being  continued  at  Chadd's  Ford, 
else  I  should  have  had  the  address  changed.  Both 
May  and  I  find  a  great  deal  in  the  paper  to  interest  us. 
We  send  loving  messages  to  you  twain.  The  boys  are 
all  at  school. 

180  ST.  PAUL  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 
November  5,  1878. 

I  have  been  "  allowing  "  —  as  the  Southern  negroes 
say  —  that  I  would  write  you,  for  the  last  two  weeks ; 
but  I  had  a  good  deal  to  say,  and  have  n't  had  time  to 
say  it. 

During  my  studies  for  the  last  six  or  eight  months  a 
thought  which  was  at  first  vague  has  slowly  crystallized 
into  a  purpose,  of  quite  decisive  aim.  The  lectures 
which  I  was  invited  to  deliver  last  winter  before  a 
private  class  met  with  such  an  enthusiastic  reception  as 
to  set  me  thinking  very  seriously  of  the  evident  delight 
with  which  grown  people  found  themselves  receiving 
systematic  instruction  in  a  definite  study.  This  again 
put  me  upon  reviewing  the  whole  business  of  Lecturing 
which  has  risen  to  such  proportions  in  our  country, 


54  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

but  which,  every  one  must  feel,  has  now  reached  its 
climax  and  must  soon  give  way  —  like  all  things  —  to 
something  better.  The  fault  of  the  lecture  system  as  at 
present  conducted  —  a  fault  which  must  finally  prove  fatal 
to  it  —  is  that  it  is  too  fragmentary,  and  presents  too  frag 
mentary  a  mass  —  indigesta  moles  —  of  facts  before  the 
hearers.  Now  if,  instead  of  such  a  series  as  that  of  the 
popular  Star  Course  (for  instance)  in  Philadelphia,  a 
scheme  of  lectures  should  be  arranged  which  would 
amount  to  the  systematic  presentation  of  a  given  subject, 
then  the  audience  would  receive  a  substantial  benefit, 
and  would  carry  away  some  genuine  possession  at  the 
end  of  the  course.  The  subject  thus  systematically 
presented  might  be  either  scientific  (as  Botany,  for 
example,  or  Biology  popularized,  and  the  like),  or 
domestic  (as  detailed  in  the  accompanying  printed 
extract  under  the  "  Household  "  School),  or  artistic,  or 
literary. 

This  stage  of  the  investigation  put  me  to  thinking  of 
schools  for  grown  people.  Men  and  women  leave 
college  nowadays  just  at  the  time  when  they  are  really 
prepared  to  study  with  effect.  There  is  indeed  a  vague 
notion  of  this  abroad;  but  it  remains  vague.  Any 
intelligent  grown  man  or  woman  readily  admits  that  it 
would  be  well  —  indeed,  many  whom  I  have  met  sin 
cerely  desire  —  to  pursue  some  regular  course  of 
thought ;  but  there  is  no  guidance,  no  organized  means 
of  any  sort,  by  which  people  engaged  in  ordinary  avoca 
tions  can  accomplish  such  an  aim. 

Here,  then,  seems  to  be,  first,  a  universal  admission 
of  the  usefulness  of  organized  intellectual  pursuit  for 
business  people ;  secondly,  an  underlying  desire  for  it 
by  many  of  the  people  themselves;  and  thirdly,  an 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          55 

existing  institution  (the  lecture  system)  which,  if  the 
idea  were  once  started,  would  quickly  adapt  itself  to 
the  new  conditions. 

In  short,  the  present  miscellaneous  lecture  courses 
ought  to  die  and  be  born  again  as  Schools  for  Grown 
People. 

It  was  with  the  hope  of  effecting  at  least  the  beginning 
of  a  beginning  of  such  a  movement  that  I  got  up  the 
"Shakspere  Course  "  in  Baltimore.  I  wished  to  show,  to 
such  a  class  as  I  could  assemble,  how  much  more  genuine 
profit  there  would  be  in  studying  at  first  hand,  under 
the  guidance  of  an  enthusiastic  interpreter,  the  writers 
and  conditions  of  a  particular  epoch  (for  instance)  than 
in  reading  any  amount  of  commentary  or  in  hearing 
any  number  of  miscellaneous  lectures  on  subjects  which 
range  from  Palestine  to  Pottery  in  the  course  of  a 
week.  With  this  view  I  arranged  my  own  part  of  the 
Shakspere  course  so  as  to  include  a  quite  thorough 
presentation  of  the  whole  science  of  poetry  as  prepara 
tory  to  a  serious  and  profitable  study  of  some  of  the 
greatest  singers  in  our  language. 

I  wish  to  make  a  similar  beginning  —  with  all  these 
ulterior  aims  —  in  Philadelphia.  I  had  hoped  to  interest 
Mr.  Furness1  in  the  idea,  particularly  because  I  sus 
pected  that  some  local  influence  would  be  needed  to 
push  forward  a  matter  depending  so  much  on  ulterior  pur 
poses  which  are  at  the  same  time  difficult  to  explain  in 
full  and  slow  in  becoming  fully  comprehended  by  the 
average  mind  of  the  public.  I  enclose  you  Mr.  Furness's 
letter,  which  I  take  to  be  a  polite  refusal  to  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  it  •  and  I  may  add  that  Mrs.  Wistar  has 

1  Horace  Howard  Furness,  America's  foremost  Shaksperian 
scholar. 


56  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

made  inquiries  which  do  not  give  much  encouragement 
from  her  world.  But  difficulties  of  this  sort  always  end, 
with  me,  —  after  the  first  intense  sigh  has  spent  itself,  — 
in  clothing  a  project  with  new  charms ;  and  I  am  now 
determined  not  to  abandon  my  Philadelphia  branch 
until  I  shall  seem  like  a  fool  to  pursue  it  farther. 
Apropos  whereof,  a  very  devoted  friend  of  mine,  there, 
having  seen  some  announcement  in  the  papers  of  my 
lectures,  writes  that  she  once  attended  a  short  course  of 
somewhat  similar  nature  in  Philadelphia  which  was  very 
successful.  It  was  conducted,  however,  by  a  gentleman 
of  considerable  local  reputation.  I  have  one  or  two 
other  friends  there  who  would  help  the  thing  forward ; 
and  I  write  you  all  this  long  screed  for  the  purpose  of 
giving  you  an  opportunity  to  meditate  on  the  entire 
situation,  and  to  direct  me  in  making  a  start  when  I 
shall  come  over  for  that  purpose. 

The  practical  method  of  beginning  is  to  form  a  class 
of  grown  persons,  at  (say)  eight  dollars  apiece,  to  whom 
I  will  deliver  twenty  lectures  and  readings,  one  each 
week,  on  a  suitable  day  and  hour  to  be  agreed  on,  cov 
ering  about  the  ground  specified  in  my  twenty-four 
lectures  announced  in  the  accompanying  programme  of 
the  Shakspere  course. 

If  a  class  of  only  twenty  could  be  made  up,  I  would 
cheerfully  commence :  for  I  feel  confident  it  would  be 
the  beginning  of  better  things.  I  think  I  know  now 
of  four  who  would  join  and  would  heartily  forward  the 
business  by  inquiring  among  their  friends  and  setting 
forth  its  aims. 

I  have  good  prospect  of  forming  a  class  in  Washing 
ton  ;  and  thus,  with  my  special  poetic  work  ("  The  Songs 
of  Aldhelm,"  which  I  believe  you  will  like  better  than 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          57 

anything  I  have  written),  you  see  my  life  will  be  de 
lightfully  arrangee,  —  if  things  come  out  properly.  Do 
you  think  Mr.  Henry  C.  Lea  would  be  interested  in 
such  a  matter? 

—  If  you  write  me,  after  digesting  this  enormous 
homily,  that  you  think  twenty  people  could  be  found,  I 
will  come  over  immediately  and  make  arrangements  to 
find  them.  I  have,  as  I  said,  several  friends  who  at 
a  word  would  busy  themselves  enthusiastically  in  the 
matter.  .  .  . 

1 80  ST.  PAUL  ST.,  BALTIMORE, 
December  21,  1878. 

If  love  and  faithful  remembrance  were  current  with 
the  wish-gods  I  could  make  you  a  rare  merry  Christmas. 
—  I  wish  I  had  two  millions ;  I  should  so  like  to  send 
you  a  check  for  one  of  'em,  with  a  request  that  you  make 
a  bonfire  of  the  "  Evening  Bulletin,"  and  come  over  here 
to  spend  Christmas,  —  and  the  rest  of  your  life  with 
me,  —  on  a  private  car  seventy-seven  times  more  luxu 
rious  than  Lome's  or  Mr.  Mapleson's.  I  really  dorft 
desire  that  you  should  spend  your  life  on  this  car  —  as  I 
seem  to,  on  reading  over  my  last  sentence  —  but  only 
that  you  should  come  on  it.  The  great  advantage  of 
having  a  poetic  imagination  is  herein  displayed  :  you 
see  how  the  simple  act  of  enclosing  you  a  check  for 
twenty-five  dollars  —  that  twenty-five  which  has  been 
due  you  so  long,  dear  friend  !  —  can  set  a  man's  thoughts 
going. 

I  have  a  mighty  yearning  to  see  you  and  my  well- 
beloved  Maria ;  it  seems  a  long  time  since ;  and  I  've 
learned  so  many  things,  —  I  almost  feel  as  if  I  had 
something  new  to  show  you. 


58  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Bayard  Taylor's  death  *  slices  a  huge  cantle  out  of  the 
world  for  me.  I  don't  yet  know  it,  at  all ;  it  only  seems 
that  he  has  gone  to  some  other  Germany,  a  little  farther 
off.  How  strange  it  all  is  :  he  was  such  a  fine  fellow,  one 
almost  thinks  he  might  have  talked  Death  over  and  made 
him  forego  his  stroke.  Tell  me  whatever  you  may  know, 
outside  of  the  newspaper  reports,  about  his  end. 

Chas.  Scribner's  Sons  hav6jconcluded  to  publish  my 
"  Boy's  Froissart,"  with  illustrations.  They  are  holding 
under  advisement  my  work  on  English  Prosody.2 

I  saw  your  notice  of  the  "  Masque  of  Poets."  The  truth 
is,  it  is  a  distressing,  an  aggravated,  yea,  an  intolerable 
collection  of  mediocrity  and  mere  cleverness.  Some  of 
the  pieces  come  so  near  being  good  that  one  is  ready  to 
tear  one's  hair  and  to  beat  somebo'dy  with  a  stick  from 
pure  exasperation  that  such  narrow  misses  should  after 
all  come  to  no  better  net  result  —  in  the  way  of  art  — 
than  so  many  complete  failures.  I  could  find  only  four 
poems  in  the  book.  As  for  Guy  Vernon,  one  marvels 
that  a  man  with  any  poetic  feeling  could  make  so  many 
stanzas  of  so  trivial  a  thing.  It  does  not  even  sparkle 
enough  to  redeem  it  as  vers  de  societe.  This  is  the  kind 
of  poetry  that  is  technically  called  culture-poetry;  yet 
it  is  in  reality  the  product  of  a  want  of  culture.  If 
these  gentlemen  and  ladies  would  read  the  old  English 
poetry  —  I  mean  the  poetry  before  Chaucer,  the  genuine 
Anglish  utterances,  from  Csedmon  in  the  seventh  century 
to  Langland  in  the  fourteenth  —  they  could  never  be 
content  to  put  forth  these  little  diffuse  prettinesses  and 
dandy  kickshaws  of  verse. 

1  Bayard  Taylor,  having  been  appointed  minister  to  Germany, 
died  shortly  after  reaching  Berlin. 

2  "  The  Science  of  English  Verse,"  published  in  1880. 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          59 

I  am  not  quite  sure  but  you  misinterpreted  whatever 
I  may  have  said  about  Mr.  Furness's  letter.  I  did  not 
mean  in  the  least  to  blame  him ;  and  his  note  was,  I 
thought,  very  kind  in  its  terms. 

I  am  in  the  midst  of  two  essays  on  Anglo-Saxon 
poetry  which  I  am  very  anxious  to  get  in  print.  These, 
with  the  Froissart  and  my  weekly  lectures,  keep  me 
bound  down  with  work. 

God  bless  you  both,  and  send  you  many  a  Christmas, 
prays  your  faithful  S.  L. 

I  find  I  am  out  of  stamps,  for  my  check :  so  must 
mulct  you  for  two  cents. 

435  N.  CALVERT  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  June  i,  1880. 

I  Ve  just  read  your  notice  of  "  The  Science  of  English 
Verse,"  and  cannot  help  sending  a  line  to  say  how  much 
it  pleases  me.  It  seems  a  model  of  the  way  in  which  a 
newspaper  should  deal  with  a  work  of  this  sort  which  in 
the  nature  of  things  cannot  be  fairly  described  without 
more  space  than  any  ordinary  journal  can  allow. 

I  was  all  the  more  pleased  because  I  had  just  read  a 

long  notice  sent  me  by  the 's  "  critic,"  which,  with 

the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  surely  capped  the 
climax  of  silly  misrepresentation.  It  is  perfectly  sober 
to  say  that  if  this  "  critic  "  had  represented  Professor 
Huxley's  late  treatise  on  the  Crayfish  as  a  cookery-book 
containing  new  and  ingenious  methods  of  preparing 
shellfish  for  the  table,  and  had  proceeded  to  object 
earnestly  that  the  book  was  a  dangerous  one,  as  stimu 
lating  over-nicety  in  eating,  —  he  would  have  been  every 
whit  as  near  the  truth.  Indeed,  on  thinking  of  it,  I 
find  this  is  a  perfect  parallel;  for  he  objected  to  "The 
Science  of  Verse  "  on  the  ground  that  it  had  "  a  ten- 


60  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

dency  .  .  *  to  exaggerate  ...  the  undue  attention 
already  given  to  ...  the  pretty  fripperies  of  ingen 
ious  verse -making !  "  If  the  book  has  one  tendency 
beyond  another  in  this  respect,  it  surely  is,  as  you  sen 
sibly  say  in  your  last  paragraph  but  one,  to  make  real 
artists  out  of  those  who  study  it,  and  to  warn  off  all 
scribblers  from  this  holy  and  arduous  ground. 

But  this  is  the  least  offence.  Although  three  of  the 
very  mottoes  on  the  Titlepage  (namely,  those  of  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  of  King  James,  and  of  Dante)  set  up  the 
sharpest  distinction  between  Verse  and  Poetry,  —  be 
tween  mere  Technic  and  Inspiration,  —  and  although 
the  Preface  presents  an  ideal  of  the  poefs  (as  distinct 
from  the  versifier's)  mission  which  culminates  in  declar 
ing  the  likeness  of  all  worthy  poets  to  David  (who  wrote 
much  poetry,  but  no  verse} ,  —  while,  further,  the  very 
first  ten  lines  of  Chapter  I.  carry  on  this  distinction  to 
what  one  would  think  a  point  infinitely  beyond  mistake, 
—  in  spite  of  all,  the  "  critic  "  gravely  makes,  and  as 
gravely  discusses,  the  assertion  that  "in  Mr.  Lanier's 
book  .  .  .  poetry  ...  is  a  mere  matter  of  pleasing 
sounds  and  pleasing  arrangements  of  sounds  !  " 

This  would  be  a  curiosity  of  woodenness,  if  it  were  not 
still  obscured  by  another  assertion :  that  this  "  Science 
of  Verse  "  originates  in  "  a  suggestion  "  made  by  Edgar 
Poe  as  to  the  "division  into  long  and  short  syllables,"  — 
which  suggestion,  he  says,  "  is  the  key  to  Mr.  Lanier's 
system  "  ! 

It  would  be  quite  as  accurate  to  say  that  Professor 
Huxley's  argument  from  the  transition- forms  of  the 
horse  in  proof  of  the  evolution  of  species  was  suggested 
by  King  Richard  the  Third's  exclamation  of  "  A  horse  ! 
a  horse  !  my  kingdom  for  a  horse  !  " 


Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock          61 

The  Easter-card  with  the  lovely  design  of  Corn  has 
been  in  my  work-room's  most  prominent  niche,  and  is 
the  constant  admiration  of  my  visitors,  who  always 
quickly  recognize  its  propriety.  Tell  Maria  —  between 
two  kisses  —  that  nothing  but  outrageous  absorption 
could  have  made  me  fail  so  long  to  acknowledge  what 
has  given  us  all  so  much  pleasure. 

—  But  this  letter  will  make  you  perspire,  with  the 
very  sight  of  its  five  pages :  and  so,  God  bless  you. 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  L. 

No  other  letters  to  Mr.  Peacock  have  been  preserved. 
During  the  winter  of  1 880-81  Lanier  delivered  a  course 
of  lectures  at  Johns  Hopkins  University  on  Personality, 
illustrated  by  the  development  of  fiction.  His  strength 
was  already  so  nearly  spent  that  most  of  the  notes  for 
these  lectures  had  to  be  dictated  in  whispers  to  his  wife, 
and  often  in  the  lecture-room  his  hearers  dreaded  lest 
his  life  should  go  out  while  he  spoke.  Yet  when  read 
now,  in  the  volume  entitled  "The  English  Novel,"  these 
lectures  show  no  sign  of  mental  lassitude ;  rather  are 
they  remarkable  for  vigor  and  suggestiveness,  and,  de 
spite  here  and  there  gaps  unavoidable  in  a  work  unre- 
vised  by  the  author,  they  form  a  body  of  constructive 
and  pregnant  criticism  not  to  be  overlooked  by  any  one 
who  values  a  critic  who  is  also  an  interpreter.  During  that 
same  winter  of  extreme  'bodily  feebleness,  Lanier  wrote 
the  poem  "  Sunrise,"  his  masterpiece,  radiant  with  beauty, 
and  strong  with  the  spiritual  strength  which  outbraves 
death.  In  the  following  summer  they  took  him  to 
North  Carolina,  in  the  hope  that  amid  the  balsam  of 
the  pines  he  might  at  least  breathe  out  his  life  with  less 
pain.  There,  on  September  7,  1881,  he  died. 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions 

THE  following  letters,  with  the  exception  of  the  first 
one,  were  written  by  Mr.  Lanier  to  his  wife  between 
April,  1869,  and  May,  1876,  in  his  absences  from  home 
while  at  Baltimore,  New  York,  and  San  Antonio.  The 
selections  have  been  made  with  the  view  of  including 
practically  all  the  correspondence  which  treats  of  musi 
cal  subjects,  and  in  pursuance  of  this  idea  a  number  of 
fragmentary  extracts  are  presented.  The  opening  letters 
represent  Mr.  Lanier's  first  impressions  of  really  great 
orchestral  music ;  there  being  no  facilities  at  that  time 
for  hearing  the  best  music  in  his  native  town.  They 
show  also  something  of  the  eager  suspense  which  he  was 
feeling  at  the  time.  His  strongest  impulse  was  always 
toward  music,  and  his  friends  had  assured  him  of  his 
ability ;  but  his  formal  instruction  had  been  limited  to 
a  few  piano  lessons  in  early  childhood,  and  he  was  now 
for  the  first  time  meeting  with  musicians  of  recognized 
standing,  and,  as  it  were,  authoritatively  placing  himself. 
Until  he  received  the  opinion  of  those  whom  he  knew  to 
be  competent  to  speak  finally,  he  did  not  even  feel  sure 
that  he  had  a  right  to  follow  the  promptings  of  his  music 
longings. 

MONTGOMERY,  ALA.,  October,  1866. 

.  .  .  She  is  right  to  cultivate  Music,  to  cling  to  it :  it 
is  the  only  reality  left  in  the  world  for  her  and  many 
another  like  her.  It  will  revolutionize  the  world,  and 
that  not  long  hence.  Let  her  study  it  intensely,  give 

5 


66  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

herself  to  it,  enter  the  very  innermost  temple  and  Sanc 
tuary  of  it.  ...  The  Altar-steps  are  wide  enough  for 
all  the  world,  and  Music  inquires  not  if  the  worshipper 
be  Vestal  or  Stained,  nor  looks  to  see  what  dust  of  other 
shrines  is  upon  the  knees  that  bend  before  her.  She  is 
utterly  unconscious  of  aught  but  Love,  which  pardons  all 
things  and  receives  all  natures  into  the  warmth  of  Its 
Bosom. 

As  for  my  organ-playing,1  you  would  be  wofully  disap 
pointed  to  hear  me.  It  is  all  so  new,  the  fingering  and 
pedal-playing  and  bass-notes  and  stops,  etc.,  etc.,  and  I 
have  so  little  time  to  practise,  that  I  have  as  yet  not 
acquired  anything  like  such  mastery  over  it  as  would 
enable  me  to  render  Music  in  fit  style  for  you  to  hear. 
I  know,  however,  that  you  would  like  some  of  the  little 
melodies  which  I  improvise  sometimes  before  service, 
because  you  would  understand.  .  .  . 

The  poem  sent  me  is  nothing  less  than  delicious.  .  .  . 
A  mellow  radiance  plays  and  wavers  through  it,  like  the 
red  spot  in  an  opal. 

The  man  who  wrote  that  poem  (a  friend  says  it  was 
James  Russell  Lowell,  but  /  could  have  sworn  some 
woman  wrote  it  ! )  was  of  the  enviable  sort  who  enjoy 
music.  Some  of  us  would  not  "  enjoy  "  such  an  organ- 
piece  as  is  there  described.  Our  souls  would  be  like 
sails  at  sea ;  and  the  irresistible  storm  of  Music  would 
shred  them  as  a  wind  shreds  canvas,  whereof  the  frag 
ments  writhe  and  lash  about  in  the  blast  which  furiously 
sports  with  their  agony. 

1  In  the  Presbyterian  church  of  Dr.  Petrie,  in  Montgomery, 
Mr.  Lanier  had  once  taken  the  organist's  place,  in  a  sudden 
emergency,  and  was  thereupon  invited  to  retain  it,  which  he  con 
sented  to  do  after  some  demur. 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  67 

Therefore  I,  except  in  some  supremely  happy  moment, 
could  never  write  a  piece  like  this,  wherein  one  finds 
nothing  of  that  sorrow-tone  which  forever  winds  like 
a  black  thread  through  the  glittering  brocade  of 
Music.  .  .  . 

NEW  YORK,  April  28,  1869. 

.  .  .  I  Ve  just  come  from  the  "  Tempest,"  at  the 
Grand  Opera  House,  corner  Twenty- third  Street  and 
Eighth  Avenue,  newly  built ;  and  my  heart  has  been  so 
full  .  .  .  that  although  they  're  about  to  shut  off  lights,  I 
must  scratch  you  a  line  to  carry  my  last  thought  to  you 
before  I  sleep.  In  one  interlude  between  the  scenes  we 
had  a  violin  solo,  Adagio,  with  soft  accompaniment  by 
orchestra.  As  the  fair,  tender  notes  came,  they  opened 
.  .  .  like  flower-buds  expanding  into  flowers  under  the 
sweet  rain  of  the  accompaniment :  kind  Heaven  !  My 
head  fell  on  the  seat  in  front,  I  was  utterly  weighed  down 
with  great  loves  and  great  ideas  and  divine  in-flowings 
and  devout  out- flo wings,  and  as  each  note  grew  and 
budded  and  opened,  and  became  a  bud  again  and  died 
into  a  fresh  birth  in  the  next  bud-note,  /  also  lived  these 
flower- tone  lives,  and  grew  and  expanded  and  folded 
back  and  died  and  was  born  again,  and  partook  of 
the  unfathomable  mysteries  of  flowers  and  tones. 

MACON,  GA.,  March  3,  1870. 

If  the  year  were  an  orchestra,  to-day  would  be  the 
calm-passionate,  even,  intense,  quiet,  full,  ineffable  flute 
therein.  In  this  sunshine  one  is  penetrated  with  flute- 
tones. 

The  passion  of  the  struggling  births  of  a  thousand  < 
spring-germs  mingles  itself  with  the  peaceful  smile  of  the 
heavens  and  with  the  tender  agitations  of  the  air.     It 


68  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

)  is  a  mellow  sound,  with  a  shimmer  of  light  trembling 

j  through  it. 

To-day  is  a  prophecy  of  the  New  Earth :  as  ... 
Music  is  a  prophecy  of  another  life.  To-day  floats  down 
Time,  as  one  petal  of  a  Lily  on  the  bosom  of  a  swift 
stream.  Silently  it  tells,  at  once,  of  the  gap  it  has  left 
in  the  full  Lily,  and  of  the  ocean  whither  it  drifts  to  be 
engulfed,  to  die,  and  to  live  again  in  other  forms. 

To-day  comes  as  a  friend  with  some  serene,  great  Joy 
in  his  eyes.  He  whispers  his  sacred  exultation :  and 
will  not  speak  it  aloud,  for  its  holiness.  .  .  . 

NEW  YORK,  August  15,  1870. 

Ah,  how  they  have  belied  Wagner !  I  heard  Theo 
dore  Thomas'  orchestra  play  his  overture  to  "  Tann- 
hauser."  The  "  Music  of  the  Future "  is  surely  thy 
music  and  my  music.  Each  harmony  was  a  chorus  of 
pure  aspirations.  The  sequences  flowed  along,  one  after 
another,  as  if  all  the  great  and  noble  deeds  of  time  had 
formed  a  procession  and  marched  in  review  before  one's 
ears,  instead  of  one's  eyes.  These  "great  and  noble 
deeds  "  were  not  deeds  of  war  and  statesmanship,  but 
majestic  victories  of  inner  struggles  of  a  man.  This  un 
broken  march  of  beautiful-bodied  Triumphs  irresistibly 
invites  the  soul  of  a  man  to  create  other  processions  like 
it.  I  would  I  might  lead  a  so  magnificent  file  of  glories 
into  heaven ! 


NEW  YORK,  August  15,  1870. 

Flutes  and  Horns  and  Violins  —  celestial  sighs  and 
breaths  slow-drawn,  penetrated  with  that  heavenly  woe 
which  the  deep  heart  knoweth  when  it  findeth  not  room 
in  the  world  for  its  too-great  love,  and  is  worn  with  fast- 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  69 

ings  for  the  Beloved :  fine  Purity,  fiercely  attacked  by 
palpitating  Fascinations,  and  bracing  herself  and  strug 
gling  and  fighting  therewith,  till  what  is  maidenly  in  a 
man  is  become  all  grimy  and  sweat-beaded  like  a  warrior  : 
dear  Love,  shot  by  some  small  arrow  and  in  pain  with  the 
wound  thereof:  divine  lamentations,  far-off  blowings  of 
great  winds,  flutterings  of  tree  and  flower  leaves  and  airs 
troubled  with  wing-beats  of  birds  or  spirits  :  floatings 
hither  and  thither  of  strange  incenses  and  odors  and 
essences  :  warm  floods  of  sunlight,  cool  gleams  of  moon 
light,  faint  enchantments  of  twilight :  delirious  dances, 
noble  marches,  processional  chants,  hymns  of  joy  and  of 
grief:  Ah,  midst  of  all  these  lived  I  last  night,  in  the 
first  chair  next  to  Theodore  Thomas'  orchestra. 

NEW  YORK,  September  24,  1870. 

...  I  went  at  one  o'clock  to-day  to  hear  Nilsson. 
She  sang  in  concert  at  Steinway  Hall;  t'  other  artists 
were  Vieuxtemps,  the  violinist ;  Wehli,  pianist ;  Brignoli, 
tenor,  and  Verger,  baritone. 

Mile.  Nilsson  singeth  as  thou  and  I  love.  She  open- 
eth  her  sweet  mouth,  and  turneth  her  head  o'  one  side 
like  a  mocking-bird  in  the  moonlight,  and  straightway 
come  forth  the  purest  silver  tones  that  ever  mortal 
voice  made.  Her  pianissimo  was  like  a  dawn,  which  \ 
crescendo'd  presently  into  a  glorious  noon  of  tone,  which 
then  did  die  away  into  a  quiet  gray  twilight  of  clear, 
melodious  whisper.  She  sang  nothing  mean,  or  light,  or 
merely  taking.  Handel's  "Angels  Ever  Bright  and 
Fair,"  solo;  a  duet  with  Brignoli,  by  Blangini,  and  a 
noble  solo,  a  scena  from  Ambroise  Thomas's  "  Hamlet  " 
(the  insane  song  of  Ophelia),  with  "Home,  Sweet 
Home  "  for  encore  —  these  were  all. 


yo  Letters  of  Sidney  Lamer 

Vieuxtemps  was  unequal.  He  fired  off  innumerable 
crackers,  and  fired  them  very  skillfully  —  but  made  no 
music  save  in  the  mere  tone,  in  which  he  was  very  fine. 

Wehli  is  entirely  splendid,  and  played  a  very  beautiful 
set  of  concert  pieces.  Brignoli  was  too  fat,  and  Verger 
too  lean :  which  also  expresseth  their  music. 

NEW  YORK,  1871. 

And  to-night  I  come  out  of  what  might  have  been 
heaven.  .  .  . 

'Twas  opening  night  of  Theo.  Thomas'  orchestra, 
at  Central  Park  Garden,  and  I  could  not  resist  the  temp 
tation  to  go  and  bathe  in  the  sweet  amber  seas  of  the 
music  of  this  fine  orchestra,  and  so  I  went,  and  tugged 
me  through  a  vast  crowd,  and,  after  standing  some  while, 
found  a  seat,  and  the  baton  tapped  and  waved,  and  I 
plunged  into  the  sea,  and  lay  and  floated.  Ah  !  the 
dear  flutes  and  oboes  and  horns  drifted  me  hither  and 
thither,  and  the  great  violins  and  small  violins  swayed 
me  upon  waves,  and  overflowed  me  with  strong  lavations, 
and  sprinkled  glistening  foam  in  my  face,  and  in  among 
the  clarinetti,  as  among  waving  water-lilies  with  flexile 
stems,  I  pushed  my  easy  way,  and  so,  even  lying  in  the 
music-waters,  I  floated  and  flowed,  my  soul  utterly  bent 
and  prostrate.  .  .  . 

NEW  YORK,  September  28,  1871. 

I  am  just  come  from  St.  Paul's  Church,  where  I  went 
at  eleven  this  morning,  by  invitation  of  Mr.  John  Cornell, 
to  hear  some  music  composed  by  him  for  the  organ  and 
trombone ;  not  the  old  slide-in-and-out  trombone,  but  a 
sort  of  baritone  cornet-b-pistons,  of  rare,  mellow,  yet  ma 
jestic  tone.  This  was  played  by  one  of  Theo.  Thomas' 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  71 

orchestra.  The  pieces  were  a  funeral  inarch,  a  religious 
air,  and  a  concert  piece.  Hadst  thou  been  with  me  to 
hear  these  horn-tones,  so  pure,  so  noble,  so  full  of  con 
fident  repose,  striking  forth  the  melody  in  midst  of  the 
thousandfold  modulations  (in  which  Cornell  always  runs 
riot),  like  a  calm  manhood  asserting  itself  through  a 
multitude  of  distractions  and  discouragements  and  mis 
eries  of  life,  —  hadst  thou  been  there,  then  how  fair  and 
how  happy  had  been  my  day. 

For  I  mostly  have  great  pain  when  music,  or  any 
beauty,  comes  past  my  way,  and  thou  art  not  by. 
Perhaps  this  is  because  music  takes  us  out  of  prison, 
and  I  do  not  like  to  leave  prison  unless  thou  goest 
also. 

For  in  the  smile  of  love  my  life  cometh  to  life,  even 
as  a  flower  under  water  gleam eth  only  when  the  sun- ray 
striketh  down  thereon. 

SAN  ANTONIO,  TEX.,  January  30,  1873. 
Last  night  at  eight  o'clock  came  Mr.  Scheidemantel,  a 
genuine  lover  of  music  and  a  fine  pianist,  to  take  me  to 
the  Maennerchor,  which  meets  every  Wednesday  night 
for  practice.  Quickly  we  came  to  a  hall,  one  end  of 
which  was  occupied  by  a  minute  stage  with  appurte 
nances,  and  a  piano ;  and  in  the  middle  thereof  a  long 
table,  at  which  each  singer  sat  down  as  he  came  in. 
Presently,  seventeen  Germans  were  seated  at  the  singing- 
table,  long-necked  bottles  of  Rhine-wine  were  opened 
and  tasted,  great  pipes  and  cigars  were  all  afire;  the 
leader,  Herr  Thielepape,  —  an  old  man  with  long,  white 
beard  and  mustache,  formerly  mayor  of  the  city,  — 
rapped  his  tuning-fork  vigorously,  gave  the  chords  by 
rapid  arpeggios  of  his  voice  (a  wonderful,  wild,  high 


72  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

tenor,  such  as  them  wouldst  dream  that  the  old  Welsh 
harpers  had,  wherewith  to  sing  songs  that  would  cut 
against  the  fierce  sea-blasts),  and  off  they  all  swung  into 
such  a  noble,  noble  old  German,  full-voiced  lied,  that 
imperious  tears  rushed  into  my  eyes,  and  I  could  scarce 
restrain  myself  from  running  and  kissing  each  one  in  turn 
and  from  howling  dolefully  the  while.  And  so  ...  I  all 
the  time  worshipping  .  .  .  with  these  great  chords  .  .  . 
we  drove  through  the  evening  until  twelve  o'clock,  absorb 
ing  enormous  quantities  of  Rhine-wine  and  beer,  whereof 
I  imbibed  my  full  share.  After  the  second  song  I  was 
called  on  to  play,  and  lifted  my  poor  old  flute  in  air  with 
tumultuous,  beating  heart ;  for  I  had  no  confidence  in 
that  or  in  myself.  But,  du  Himmel!  Thou  shouldst 
have  heard  mine  old  love  warble  herself  forth.  To  my 
utter  astonishment,  I  was  perfect  master  of  the  instru 
ment.  Is  not  this  most  strange?  Thou  knowest  I  had 
never  learned  it;  and  thou  rememberest  what  a  poor 
muddle  I  made  at  Marietta  in  playing  difficult  passages ; 
and  I  certainly  have  not  practised ;  and  yet  there  I  com 
manded  and  the  blessed  notes  obeyed  me,  and  when  I 
had  finished,  amid  a  storm  of  applause,  Herr  Thielepape 
arose  and  ran  to  me  and  grasped  my  hand,  and  de 
clared  that  he  hat  never  heert  de  flude  accompany  itself 
pefore  !  I  played  once  more  during  the  evening,  and 
ended  with  even  more  rapturous  bravos  than  before,  Mr. 
Scheidemantel  grasping  my  hand  this  time,  and  thanking 
me  very  earnestly. 

My  heart,  which  was  hurt  greatly  when  I  went  into 
the  music-room,  came  forth  from  the  holy  bath  of  con 
cords  greatly  refreshed,  strengthened  and  quieted,  and 
so  remaineth  to-day.  I  also  feel  better  than  in  a  long 
time  before.  Moreover,  I  am  still  master  of  the  flute, 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  73 

and  she  hath  given  forth  to  me  to-day  such  tones  as  I 
have  never  heard  from  a  flute  before. 
For  these  things  I  humbly  thank  God. 

SAN  ANTONIO,  TEXAS,  February  14,  1873. 

.  .  .  Last  night  I  went  to  the  party  of  Colonel  W . 

I  found  a  very  elegant-looking  company  of  ladies  and 

gentlemen  —  among  the  most  so,  General  A and 

his  daughters  —  already  assembled. 

First  came  some  very  good  concerted  pieces  for  violin 
and  piano,  then  a  piano  solo,  then  a  song.  Then  they 
called  for  the  flute.  I  had  not  played  three  seconds 
before  a  profound  silence  reigned  among  the  people, 
seeing  which,  and  dreaming  wildly,  and  feeling  somehow 
in  an  eerie  and  elfish  and  half-uncanny  mood,  I  flew  off 
into  all  manner  of  trills,  and  laments,  and  cadenza- 
monstrosities  for  a  long  time,  but  finally  floated  down 
into  "  La  Me"lancolie  "  (which,  on  the  violin,  ran  every 
body  crazy  some  weeks  ago,  here,  at  a  concert),  which 
melted  itself  forth  with  such  eloquent  lamenting  that  it 
almost  brought  my  tears  —  and,  to  make  a  long  story 
short,  when  I  allowed  the  last  note  to  die,  a  simulta 
neous  cry  of  pleasure  broke  forth  from  men  and  women 
that  almost  amounted  to  a  shout,  and  I  stood  and  re 
ceived  the  congratulations  that  thereupon  came  in,  so 
wrought  up  by  my  own  playing  with  [hidden]  thoughts, 
that  I  could  but  smile  mechanically,  and  make  stereo 
typed  returns  to  the  pleasant  sayings,  what  time  my  heart 
worked  falteringly,  like  a  mouth  that  is  about  to  cry. 

I  would  there  were  some  other  chronicler  to  tell  thee 
of  this  success  —  for  I  cannot  but  seem  to  blow  mine 
own  horn  therein !  —  but  I  know  it  will  give  thee 
pleasure,  and  therefore,  failing  others,  I  tell  it  thee. 


74  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

NEW  YORK,  September  24,  1873. 

.  .  .  On  Monday  [in  Baltimore]  my  good  friend 
Wysham  had  the  great  Mr.  Hamerik,  director  of  the 
Peabody  Conservatory  of  Music,  at  his  house  to  meet 
me.  .  .  .  Hamerik  is  one  of  the  first  composers  in 
the  world  .  .  .  (Theodore  Thomas  has  recently  brought 
out  his  "  Nordische  Suite  "  with  fine  effect)  and  one  of 
the  most  accomplished  maestros  also.  So  soon  as  he 
came,  Wysham  made  me  play  "  Blackbirds."  1  When 
I  finished,  Mr.  Hamerik  expressed  himself  in  such 
approval  as  would  have  delighted  thee  beyond  measure. 
He  declared  the  composition  to  be  that  of  an  artist,  and 
the  playing  to  be  almost  perfect,  —  with  a  grave  and 
manifestly  hearty  manner  which  could  not  be  mistaken 
—  and  concluded  his  applause  by  telling  me  that  he 
was  endeavoring  to  persuade  the  trustees  of  the  Peabody 
Music  Fund  to  authorize  him  to  organize  a  full  orchestra, 
in  which  he  begged  I  would  accept  the  position  of  first 
flute.  Kind  Heaven,  how  my  heart  throbbed  with  de 
light  —  for  my  first  thought  was  of  thine  enjoyment, 
when  I  should  at  last  be  able  to  tell  thee  that  I  had 
received  finally,  and  without  any  more  peradventure,  the 
hearty  recognition  and  approval,  both  for  my  composition 
and  for  my  playing,  of  one  who  is  regarded  as  a  com 
poser  just  below  the  classic  Beethoven  and  Mozart, 
whose  compositions  are  played  along  with  those  of  the 
great  masters,  and  who  has  been  accustomed  to  hear, 
and  to  conduct,  the  finest  music  in  the  world.  After 

1  In  a  letter  from  San  Antonio,  of  February  28,  1873,  Mr- 
Lanier  says  :  "  I  have  writ  the  most  beautiful  piece,  '  Field-larks 
and  Blackbirds/  wherein  I  have  mirrored  Mr.  Field-lark's  pretty 
eloquence  so  that  I  doubt  he  would  know  the  difference  betwixt 
the  flute  and  his  own  voice." 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  75 

thus  praising  my  work,  Mr.  Hamerik  went  into  the 
library,  and  wrote  me  a  beautiful  letter  to  Theodore 
Thomas,  not  a  letter  of  extravagance,  but  a  few  grave, 
sweet,  courteous  words;  then,  coming  downstairs,  he 
made  me  play  again  the  three  main  movements  of 
"  Blackbirds,"  and  testified  anew,  both  while  I  was  play 
ing  and  when  I  had  finished,  his  pleasure  in  the  same. 

It  is,  therefore,  a  possibility  .  .  .  that  I  may  be  first 
flute  in  the  Peabody  Orchestra,  on  a  salary  of  $120  a 
month,  which,  with  five  flute  scholars,  would  grow  to 
$200  a  month,  and  so  ...  we  might  dwell  in  the 
beautiful  city,  among  the  great  libraries,  and  midst  of 
the  music,  the  religion,  and  the  art  that  we  love  —  and 
I  could  write  my  books,  and  be  the  man  I  wish  to  be. 

I  do  thank  God  even  for  this  dream. 

NEW  YORK,  October  6,  1873. 

.  .  .  Arriving  in  town  this  morning,  I  rushed  over 

here,  to  Brooklyn,  and  went  to  Mr.  M 's,  who  took 

me,  by  previous  arrangement,  to  play  for  Mr.  S , 

the  musical  critic  of  a  leading  New  York  paper.  We 

arrived  at  Mr.  S 's  in  a  fierce  storm  of  wind  and 

rain,  got  in  and  met  Mr.  S ,  a  dapper  little  young 

man,  supposed  to  possess  supernatural  knowledge  in  the 
matter  of  Italian  opera,  and  rejoicing  in  all  manner  of 
souvenirs  from  the  great  artists,  which  he  exhibited 
to  us. 

I  played  him  "  Blackbirds  "  and  the  "  Swamp  Robin," 
whereat  he  was  greatly  stricken,  expressing  himself  in 
fair  terms,  and  allowing  himself  to  be  drawn  into  as 
much  enthusiasm  as  was  consistent  with  his  Exalted 
Position.  I  am  to  go  again,  when  he  will  have  an 
entire  afternoon;  and  meantime  have  left  some  music 


j6  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

for  his  sister  to  practise  on  the  piano.  Before  I  com 
menced  to  play  we  had  a  triangular  talk  in  which  my 
critic  did  me  the  honor  to  expound  some  very  orthodox 
theories  in  regard  to  the  flute,  which  I  straightway  pro 
ceeded  to  upset,  with  all  the  pleasure  in  the  world,  by 
practical  arguments.  He  was  exceedingly  kind  and 

polite,  and  I  have  to  thank  Mr.  M very  much  for 

the  meeting,  which  was  arranged  by  Mr.  M entirely 

without  my  knowledge. 

BROOKLYN,  October  10,  1873. 

Three  days  ago  I  went  to  Badger's l  on  business,  and 
found  there  a  magnificent  great  silver  Bass-Flute,  run 
ning  down  to  F  below  the  staff,  and  on  putting  it  to  my 
lips,  drew  forth  the  most  ravishing  notes  I  ever  heard 
from  any  instrument ;  broad,  noble  tones,  like  my  fine 
boy's  eyes  —  whereupon  I  dilated  upon  a  wind  of  in 
spiration,  and  did  breathe  out  strains  thereon  in  such 
fashion  that  the  workmen  gazed,  and  grew  sympathetic, 
so  that  now  when  I  go  there  they  immediately  bring  me 
the  bass-flute. 

BROOKLYN,  October  15,  1873. 

To-day  I  have  been  playing  a  few  duos  with  Mr. 
Eben  .  .  .  then  down  town,  to  attend  to  some  financial 
matters,  in  the  course  of  which  I  was  waylaid  on  Wall 

Street  by  Mr. ,  who  informed  me  that   Miss 

was  to  be  here  on  Sunday,  and  that  he  was  proposing  to 
arrange  for  me  to  play  before  her.  I  don't  anticipate 

1  A  letter  of  this  date,  from  Badger  to  an  old  customer,  says  : 
"...  Lanier  is  astonishing.  .  .  .  But  you  ought  to  hear  him 
play  the  bass-flute.  You  would  then  say,  '  Let  me  pass  from  the 
earth  with  the  tones  sounding  in  my  ears  ! '  If  he  could  travel 
with  a  concert-troupe,  and  play  solos  on  the  bass-flute,  I  would 
get  orders  for  fifty  in  a  month.  .  .  ," 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  77 

much    pleasure    from    the    interview,   for,   from    all    I 

can  hear  of  Miss ,  she  is  fearfully  puffed  up  with 

conceit,  wonderfully  wrong-notioned  about  music  (she 
"  does  n't  like  Wagner  "  —  for  instance  —  "  there  is 
nothing  in  his  operas  for  the  prima  donna  to  do  beyond 
the  other  singers ;  "  and  she  "  does  n't  like  Theodore 
Thomas'  orchestra;  they  can't  accompany  a  singer  at 
all !  "  and  other  the  like  deliverances),  and,  more  than 
all,  despises  the  flute,  having  once  given  Mr.  Eben  a 
fearful  rebuff,  telling  him  that  "she  did  not  care  to 
hear  .a  man  pumping  wind  into  a  tube  !  !  "  Yet,  sim 
ply  for  the  adventure  of  the  thing,  if  they  do  arrange 
the  meeting,  I  '11  go. 

Oh,  how  I  can  play,  with  a  couple  of  months'  prac 
tice  !  Thou  wouldst  not  know  my  playing  now  for  that 
which  thou  heardst  in  Marietta.  The  instrument  begins 
to  feel  me,  to  grow  lithe  under  my  fingers,  to  get 
warmed  to  life  by  my  kiss,  like  Pygmalion's  stone,  and 
to  respond  with  perfect  enthusiasm  to  my  calls.  .  .  . 

It  is  like  a  soul  made  into  silver.  How  can  the 
people  but  respond  if  I  have  its  exquisite  inner-self 
speaking  by  my  lips  ! 

BROOKLYN,  October  17,  1873. 

...  I  went  last  night  with ,  to  hear  "  Die  Zauber- 

flote."  That  was  a  mere  farce,  as  indeed  was  all  of  it, 
save  the  singing  of  the  two  prime  donne  and  the  chorus. 
Di  Murska  executed  the  most  wonderful  staccatos  in 
the  higher  register  (taking  high  F  at  a  leap,  without  an 
effort),  and  Lucca  made  all  that  could  be  made  out  of 
that  poor,  bald  music  of  Mozart's.  Why  do  we  cling 
so  to  humbugs?  Mozart's  music  is  not  to  be  compared 
with  Schumann's,  or  Wagner's,  or  Chopin's,  or  Mendels 
sohn's,  or  Beethoven's.  The  "  magic  flute "  in  this 


78  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

opera  made  us  laugh,  and  the  sight  of  the  animals  (who 
are  supposed  to  be  charmed  from  their  lairs  by  the 
tones  of  the  "magic  flute")  capering  about  the  stage 
to  the  poor,  thin  notes  of  the  poor,  thin  music  was  too 
absurd. 

BROOKLYN,  October  26,  1873. 
Yesterday  I  played   duos  —  some  lovely  Kuhlau's  — 

with .    He  received  me  very  cordially,  and  we  played 

very  well  together;  but  we  will  never  harmonize  very 
intimately,  for  while  he  has  taste  enough  to  like  the 
best  music,  yet  there  is  a  certain  something  —  a  flame, 
a  sentiment,  a  spark  kindled  by  the  stroke  of  the  soul 
against  sorrow,  as  of  steel  against  flint  —  which  he  hath 
not,  and  the  want  of  which  will  forever  keep  him  from 
penetrating  into  the  deepest  of  music.  He  is  warmly  en 
thusiastic,  and  would  have  played  the  whole  afternoon  with 
me,  but  I  was  obliged  to  leave,  to  meet  an  engagement. 

BROOKLYN,  November  16,  1873. 

The  orchestra  is  to  be  formed  —  but  to  last  only  four 
months  —  and  each  player  to  get  only  $60  a  month. 
Yet  I  am  going,  without  hesitation;  for,  first,  this  will 
occupy  but  a  little  time,  and,  second,  I  can  largely  sup 
plement  the  poor  pay  in  different  ways,  and,  third,  it 
will  give  me  a  foothold,  which  I  can  likely  step  from  to 
something  better  —  for  the  Peabody  is  a  literary  as  well 
as  a  musical  institution.  ... 

I  have  had  some  pleasant  musical  successes.  I  played 
on  Wednesday  night  at  a  concert  in  Brooklyn,  before 
some  eight  hundred  people,  and  made  some  stir,  par 
ticularly  in  the  papers  —  notices  whereof  I  send  thee 
herein.  Of  course,  the  talk  in  these  notices  about  a 
debut,  the  debutant,  etc.,  is  simply  absurd.  ...  I  only 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  79 

played  for  the  fun  of  it,  and  by  way  of  feeling  the  pulse 
of  these  audiences  in  a  quiet  way  (for  these  little  con 
certs  are  not  ordinarily  heard  of  at  all  in  the  newspapers), 
before  venturing  to  prescribe  for  the  big  music-sick 
patient  of  New  York.  When  I  am  ready  to  come  out, 
which  will  be  after  I  practise  four  months  in  Baltimore, 
I  shall  make  my  debut  under  the  auspices  of  the  Phil 
harmonic  or  of  Theo.  Thomas,  or  not  at  all.  Meantime, 
these  notices  will  amuse  thee.  They  are  considered 
wonderfully  flattering:  so  many  musicians  here  work 
for  years  and  years,  and  are  never  heard  of  at  all. 

Perhaps  the  most  complete  triumph  I  have  had  was  on 
last  Sunday  evening,  when  I  played  before  an  audience 
of  a  half-dozen  or  more  of  cultivated  people.  When 
I  had  given  "  Blackbirds  "  and  the  "  Swamp  Robin,"  the 
house  rose  at  me.  Miss  Fletcher  declared  .  .  .  that  I 
was  not  only  the  founder  of  a  school  of  music,  but  the 
founder  of  American  music ;  that  hitherto  all  American 
compositions  had  been  only  German  music  done  over, 
but  that  these  were  at  once  American,  un-German, 
classic,  passionate,  poetic,  and  beautiful ;  that  I  belonged 
to  the  Advance  Guard,  which  must  expect  to  struggle, 
but  which  could  not  fail  to  succeed,  with  a  hundred 
other  things,  finally  closing  with  a  fervent  expression  of 
good  wishes,  in  which  all  the  company  joined  with  such 
unanimity  and  fervor  that  I  was  in  a  state  of  embarrass 
ment,  which  thou  mayst  imagine  !  I  wrote  her  a  note 
the  next  day,  desiring  to  make  some  more  articulate 
response  than  blushes  to  her  recognition,  and  I  have  a 
lovely  note  from  her  in  reply.1 

l  The  note  referred  to  ran  as  follows:  — 
MR.  LANIER,  — Once  more  I  am  your  debtor  for  a  bit  of  music, 
your  note  written  is  like  your  note  played.     If  our  sincere  appre- 


8o  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

On  Wednesday  I  played  flute  trios  with  Mr.  P 

and  Mr.  Y .     We  sat  down  to  a  bound  volume  of 

Kuhlau's  trios  at  three  o'clock,  and  played,  without  leav 
ing  our  seats,  until  five.  They  gave  me  first  flute.  .  .  . 

I  had  taken  Mr. there  with  me.     He  could  scarcely 

contain  himself — newspaper  hack  as  he  is!  —  as  we 
breathed  these  miraculous  harmonies,  and  unearthly, 
dainty  melodies,  and  his  great  eyes  got  as  deep  as  the 

sea,  and  nigh  as  moist.     Think  —  Mr.  Y ,  who  has 

been  playing  in  New  York  for  years,  among  the  very 
best  professional  flutists,  and  who  is  certainly  the  best 
reader  I  ever  saw,  says  /  am  the  best  he  ever  saw  —  I, 
who,  surely  as  thou  knowest,  have  scarcely  read  a  half- 
dozen  new  pieces  in  any  year  of  my  musical  life,  before 
this  last  month  or  so  !  How  splendid  it  is.  I  could 
never  tell  thee  how  I  enjoy  such  things ;  for  it  is  not  I, 
but  always  one  in  whom,  for  thy  sake,  I  have  much 
interest. 

elation  could  in  any  degree  make  slight  return  for  the  delight  you 
gave  us,  I  assure  you  that  our  happiness  is  increased. 

Your  flute  gave  me  that  for  which  I  had  ceased  to  hope,  true 
American  Music,  and  awakened  in  my  heart  a  feeling  of  patriotism 
that  I  never  knew  before.  Indeed,  to  put  it  strongly,  America 
did  not  seem  to  be  my  home  except  of  necessity ;  my  bread  and 
clothes  and  work  were  here,  and  when  my  soul  hungered  and 
thirsted  for  the  Divine  inspiration  of  music,  I  had  to  turn  away 
to  other  lands  and  worship  as  it  were  in  a  foreign  tongue.  But 
when  your  "  Swamp  Robin  "  came  upon  the  wings  of  melody  and 
piped  again  his  simple  lay,  he  also 

"  Sang  of  what  the  world  will  be, 

When  the  years  have  passed  away  :  " 
and  I  found  worship  in  my  native  Land  and  Tongue. 
May  God  bless  your  gifts  a  thousandfold. 
Sincerely  your  friend, 

ALICE  C.  FLETCHER. 
November  14,  1873. 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  81 

BROOKLYN,  November  1 7,  1873. 

.  .  .  Last  night  I  played  at  another  church  con 
cert  in  New  York  City,  far  up  town,  to  a  very  pleasant 
audience,  with  very  pleasant  testimonials  of  success. 
My  first  piece,  a  concertino  of  Briccialdi's  .  .  .  brought 
down  the  house,  in  an  enthusiastic  encore,  to  which  I 
responded  with  the  inevitable  "  Blue  Bells  of  Scotland." 
My  last  piece  was  the  "  Swamp  Robin,"  which  I  only 
ventured  as  an  experiment.  'Twas  a  curious  psycho 
logic  study  to  note  how  it  puzzled  most  of  the  audience, 
and  how  the  few  who  did  get  into  it,  began,  as  it  were, 
to  look  about  them  and  to  say  —  like  a  man  who  has 
suddenly  ridden  into  a  strange  and  unexpected  road  — 
Heigh,  heigh  !  what 's  this?  Somebody  saith  every  origi 
nal  writer  has  to  educate  his  readers  gradually  to  him 
self.  How  true  this  is  in  New  York  !  Here  the  people 
are  at  once  the  boldest  and  the  timidest  in  the  world. 
When  the  new  presents  itself  here,  each  one  waits  for 
the  other  one  to  pronounce  decisively;  of  course,  at 
first,  no  one  speaks ;  finally,  some  generous  and  open 
heart  says,  this  is  a  good  thing ;  and  then  straightway 
all  the  people  join  and  push  the  good  thing  to  heaven. 

Once  give  them  a  start  —  these  singular  New  Yorkers 
—  and  they  will  go  any  length. 

BROOKLYN,  November  21,  1873. 

...  I  can  but  [send  thee  a  brief  word]  this  morning 
telling  thee  .  .  .  that  my  Dane,  Mr.  Hamerik,  was  in  New 
York  two  days  ago  ;  that,  after  a  long  search,  we  found 
each  other ;  that  he  behaved  most  beautifully  and  nobly 
to  me,  and  offered  to  do  everything  in  the  world  to  make 
my  stay  in  Baltimore  pleasant ;  and  that  finally  I  con 
cluded  an  engagement  with  him  as  Flauto  Primo  in  the 

6 


82  Letters  of  Sidney  Lamer 

Peabody  Symphony  Orchestra,  for  four  months,  com 
mencing  on  December  ist,  prox°.  We  are  to  have  four 
rehearsals  a  week,  of  two  hours  each,  from  1 2  to  2  p.  M., 
and  one  concert  each  week.  This  only  takes  up  eleven 
hours  out  of  the  week's  time,  and  gives  me  a  great  deal 
of  opportunity  to  write.  I  do  not  get  as  much  pay  as  I 
hoped,  but  I  hope  to  make  more  with  a  pupil  or  two,  and 
then  I  can  finish  my  darling  Jacquerie  midst  of  the  great 
libraries.  I  am  overjoyed  at  this  prospect. 

BALTIMORE,  December  2,  1873. 
**       Well,  Flauto  Primo  hath  been  to  his  first  rehearsal. 

Fancy  thy  poor  lover,  weary,  worn,  and  stuffed  with  a 
cold,  arriving  after  a  brisk  walk  —  he  was  so  afraid  he 
might  be  behind  time  —  at  the  hall  of  Peabody  Institute. 
He  passeth  down  betwixt  the  empty  benches,  turneth 
through  the  green-room,  emergeth  on  the  stage,  greeteth 
the  Maestro,  is  introduced  by  the  same  to  Flauto  Se- 
condo,  and  then,  with  as  much  carelessness  as  he  can 
assume,  he  sauntereth  in  among  the  rows  of  music-stools, 
to  see  if  peradventure  he  can  find  the  place  where  he  is 
to  sit  —  for  he  knoweth  not,  and  liketh  not  to  ask.  He 
remembereth  where  the  flutes  sit  in  Thomas'  Orchestra ; 
but  on  going  to  the  corresponding  spot  he  findeth  the 
part  of  Contra-Basso  on  the  music-stand,  and  fleeth 
therefrom  in  terror.  In  despair,  he  is  about  to  endeavor 
to  get  some  information  on  the  sly,  when  he  seeth  the 
good  Flauto  Secondo  sitting  down  far  in  front,  and 
straightway  marcheth  to  his  place  on  the  left  of  the 
same,  with  the  air  of  one  that  had  played  there  since 
babyhood.  This  Hamerik  of  ours  hath  French  ideas 
about  his  orchestral  arrangements  and  places  his  pieces 
very  differently  from  Thomas.  Well,  I  sit  down,  some 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  83 

late-comers  arrive,  stamping  and  blowing  —  for  it  is  snow 
ing  outside  —  and  pull  the  green-baize  covers  off  their 
big  horns  and  bass-fiddles.  Presently  the  Maestro,  who 
is  rushing  about,  hither  and  thither,  in  some  excitement, 
falleth  to  striking  a  great  tuning-fork  with  a  mallet,  and 
straightway  we  all  begin  to  toot  A,  to  puff  it,  to  groan  it, 
to  squeak  it,  to  scrape  it,  until  I  sympathize  with  the 
poor  letter,  and  glide  off  in  some  delicate  little  runs ; 
and  presently  the  others  begin  to  flourish  also,  and  here 
we  have  it,  up  chromatics,  down  diatonics,  unearthly 
buzzings  from  the  big  fiddles,  diabolical  four-string] 
chords  from  the  'cellos,  passionate  shrieks  from  the 
clarionets  and  oboes,  manly  remonstrances  from  the 
horns,  querulous  complaints  from  the  bassoons,  and  so 
on.  Now  the  Maestro  mounteth  to  his  perch.  I  am 
seated  immediately  next  the  audience,  facing  the  first 
violins,  who  are  separated  from  me  by  the  conductor's 
stand.  I  place  my  part  (of  the  Fifth  Symphony  of 
Beethoven,  which  I  had  procured  two  days  before,  in 
order  to  look  over  it,  being  told  that  on  the  first  re 
hearsal  we  would  try  nothing  but  the  Fifth  Symphony) 
on  my  stand,  and  try  to  stop  my  heart  from  beating  so 
fast  —  with  unavailing  arguments.  Maestro  rappeth  with 
his  baton,  and  magically  stilleth  all  the  shrieks  and 
agonies  of  the  instruments.  "  Fierst "  (he  saith,  with  the 
Frenchiest  of  French  accents  —  tho'  a  Dane,  he  was 
educated  in  Paris)  "  I  wish  to  present  to  ze  gentlemen 
of  ze  orchestra  cur  fierst  flutist,  Mr.  Sidney  Lanier,  also 
our  fierst  oboe,  Mr.  (I  did  n't  catch  his  name)."  Where 
upon,  not  knowing  what  else  to  do  —  and  the  pause 
being  somewhat  awkward  —  I  rise  and  make  a  profound 
bow  to  the  Reeds,  who  sit  behind  me,  another  to  the 
'Celli,  the  Bassi,  and  the  Tympani,  in  the  middle,  and  a 


84  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

third  to  the  Violins  opposite.  This  appeareth  to  be  the 
right  thing,  for  Oboe  jumpeth  up  also,  and  boweth,  and 
the  gentlemen  of  the  orchestra  all  rise  and  bow,  some  of 
them  with  great  empressement.  Then  there  is  a  little 
idiotic  hum  and  simper,  such  as  newly  introduced  people 
usually  affect.  Then  cometh  a  man  —  whom  I  should  al 
ways  hate,  if  I  could  hate  anybody  always  —  and,  to  my 
horror,  putteth  on  my  music-stand  the  flauto  primo  part 
of  Niels  Gade's  Ossian  Overture,  and  thereupon  the 
Maestro  saith,  "We  will  try  /fta/fierst."  Horrors  !  They 
told  me  they  would  play  nothing  but  the  Fifth  Symphony, 
and  this  Ossian  Overture  I  have  never  seen  or  heard  ! 
This  does  not  help  my  heart-beats  nor  steady  my  lips  — 
thou  canst  believe.  However,  there  is  no  time  to  tarry, 
the  baton  rappeth,  the  horns  blow,  my  five  bars'  rest  is 
out  —  I  plunge. 

—  Oh  !  If  thou  couldst  but  be  by  me  in  this  sublime 
glory  of  music  !  All  through  it  I  yearned  for  thee  with 
heart-breaking  eagerness.  The  beauty  of  it  maketh  me 
catch  my  breath  —  to  write  of  it.  I  will  not  attempt  to 
describe  it.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  poems  of  Ossian 
done  in  music  by  the  wonderful  Niels  Gade. 

I  got  through  it  without  causing  any  disturbance. 
Maestro  had  to  stop  twice  on  account  of  some  other 
players.  I  failed  to  come  in  on  time  twice  in  the  Sym 
phony.  I  am  too  tired  now  to  give  thee  any  further 
account.  I  go  again  to  rehearsal  to-morrow. 

BALTIMORE,  December  n,  1873. 

...  I  send  a  programme  of  our  concert  last  Saturday 
night.  It  was  brilliant,  and  I  failed  not  —  though  half- 
dead  with  cold,  and  though  called  on  unexpectedly.  I 
am  better  to-day.  The  music  lifts  me  to  a  heaven  of 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  85 

pain  !  .  .  .  We  are  now  rehearsing  the  a  Symphonic  Fan- 
tastique  "  of  Berlioz,  which  representeth  an  opium- dream 
of  a  love-sick  young  man.  'T  is  wonderfully  hectic,  and 
parts  of  it  wonderfully  beautiful. 

BALTIMORE,  December  21,  1873. 

Last  night  we  gave  a  magnificent  concert.  The 
house  was  crowded.  Read  the  enclosed  carte,  show 
ing  the  fare  we  spread  before  the  people  .  .  .  [But 
for  loneliness]  the  music  would  have  been  complete, 
life  would  have  been  utterly  full,  my  heart  would  have 
bathed  itself  in  a  sublime  sea  of  passionate  content.  The 
orchestra  was  inspired,  the  "Symphonic  Fantastique,"  as 
difficult  and  trying  a  piece  of  orchestration  as  was  ever 
written,  was  played  to  a  marvel.  ...  In  this  "  Sympho 
nic  "  of  Berlioz  every  movement  centreth  about  a  lovely, 
melody,  repeated  in  all  manner  of  times  and  places,  which 
representeth  the  Beloved  of  the  opium-eating  musician. 
.  .  .  Then,  the  "  Hunt  of  Henry  IV.  !"  .  .  .  It  openeth 
with  a  grave  and  courteous  invitation,  as  of  a  cavalier 
riding  by  some  dainty  lady,  through  the  green  aisles  of 
the  deep  woods,  to  the  hunt  —  a  lovely,  romantic  mel 
ody,  the  first  violins  discoursing  the  man's  words,  the 
first  flute  replying  for  the  lady.  Presently  a  fanfare ;  a 
sweet  horn  replies  out  of  the  far  woods ;  then  the  meet 
ing  of  the  gay  cavaliers ;  then  the  start,  the  dogs  are 
unleashed,  one  hound  gives  tongue,  another  joins,  the 
stag  is  seen  —  hey,  gentlemen  !  away  they  all  fly  through 
the  sweet  leaves,  by  the  great  oaks  and  beeches,  all  a-dash 
among  the  brambles,  till  presently,  bang  !  goeth  a  pistol 
(it  was  my  veritable  old  revolver  loaded  with  blank  car 
tridge  for  the  occasion,  the  revolver  that  hath  lain  so 
many  nights  under  my  head),  fired  by  Tympani  (as  we 


86  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

call  him,  the  same  being  a  nervous  little  Frenchman  who 
playeth  our  drums,)  and  then  the  stag  dieth  in  a  celestial 
concord  of  flutes,  oboes,  and  violins.  Oh,  how  far  off 
my  soul  was  in  this  thrilling  moment !  It  was  in  a  rare, 
sweet  glen  in  Tennessee,  the  sun  was  rising  over  a  wilder 
ness  of  mountains,  I  was  standing  (how  well  I  remember 
the  spot !)  alone  in  the  dewy  grass,  wild  with  rapture  and 
with  expectation  —  yonder  came,  gracefully  walking,  a 
lovely  fawn.  I  looked  into  its  liquid  eyes,  hesitated, 
prayed,  gulped  a  sigh,  then  overcome  with  the  savage 
hunter's  instinct,  fired ;  the  fawn  leaped  convulsively  a 
few  yards,  I  ran  to  it,  found  it  lying  on  its  side,  and 
received  into  my  agonized  and  remorseful  heart  the 
reproaches  of  its  most  tender,  dying  gaze.  But  luckily 
I  had  not  the  right  to  linger  over  this  sad  scene ;  the 
conductor's  baton  shook  away  the  dying  pause ;  on  all 
sides  shouts  and  fanfares  and  gallopings  "  to  the  death," 
to  which  the  first  flute  had  to  reply  in  time,  recalled  me 
to  my  work,  and  I  came  through  brilliantly. 

The  Chopin  Rondo  Concerto,  for  piano  and  orchestra, 
I  cannot  describe  to  thee.  It  nearly  killed  me  with 
longing  .  .  .  [through]  the  wondrous  delicate,  yet  in 
tense  thoughts  which  pervade  it;  the  "zal,"  as  Liszt 
calleth  it.  Herein  the  flute  hath  some  lovely  replies 
and  dialogues  with  the  piano,  in  solo,  and  the  horns  are 
exquisitely  brought  forth. 

The  songs  were  not  particularly  fine,  tho'  very  enjoy 
able.  The  Masaniello  Overture  thou  hast,  of  course, 
heard  before.  It  was  played  very  brilliantly.  To-day 
Wysham  l  and  I  played  a  beautiful  adagio  patetico  dur 
ing  the  offertorium  at  St.  Paul's,  the  largest  church  in 
the  city.  We  had  an  organ  accompaniment,  played  by 

1  The  Second  Flute  in  the  Peabody  Symphony  Orchestra. 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  87 

a  glorious  organist,  and  as  the  two  spirituelle  silver  tones 
went  stealing  and  swelling  through  the  great  groined 
arches  of  the  enormous  church,  I  thought  I  had  never 
heard  flute-notes  so  worthily  employed  before.  The 
people  were  greatly  pleased,  and  Wysham  was  delighted. 
I  dined  with  Mrs.  Bird  to-day.  .  .  .  She  hath  been 
my  constant  and  true  friend,  and  I  shall  love  her  • —  I 
know  thou  wilt  also  —  all  my  life. 

BALTIMORE,  December  25,  1873. 

I  am  now  from  St.  Paul's  Church,  where  the  musi 
cians  of  our  orchestra  (among  them  myself)  were  en 
gaged  to  help  make  the  music  for  the  grand  services  of 
the  day.  We  were  a  first  violin,  viola,  'cello,  double- 
bass,  clarionet,  French  horn,  bassoon,  two  flutes  (Wy 
sham  and  I),  and  great  organ,  with  a  choir  of  about 
forty  boys  and  men,  and  some  female  voices.  The 
service  was  nearly  three  hours  long,  and  music,  music, 
all  the  time.  We  opened  with  the  overture  to  Mozart's 
"  Magic  Flute  "  (which  was,  I  am  free  to  say,  a  most 
abominably  outre"  affair  for  a  church  service),  and  then 
played  with  the  choir  throughout  the  service.  This  is  a 
wonderfully  ritualistic  church.  A  shrine  is  in  front- 
centre,  flanked  by  two  enormous  lighted  candles,  and 
arched  over  by  a  number  of  smaller  ones.  Three  cler 
gymen  and  a  number  of  acolytes,  boys,  etc.,  assisted  in 
the  service.  The  rector  marched  in  stately  fashion 
down  from  his  dais,  the  other  clergymen,  the  acolytes, 
and  the  choir  filed  two  and  two  behind  him ;  all 
marched  down  into  the  body  of  the  church,  singing  a 
fine  chant,  then  filed  to  the  left,  and  so  went  in  pro 
cession  across  to  a  side  door,  giving  into  a  room  in  the 
rear  of  the  church,  through  which  all  passed,  still  sing- 


88  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

ing.  The  chant  was  kept  up  long  after  they  had  dis 
appeared,  and  the  door  was  shut,  and  as  the  voices  re 
ceded  and  receded,  until  finally  nothing  but  the  clear  treble 
of  the  boys  could  be  heard,  't  was  dramatically  very  beau 
tiful.  Some  of  the  pieces  were  magnificent,  and  the 
crash  of  the  voices  and  organs  and  instruments  rolled 
gloriously  among  the  great  arches.  All  of  them  would 
have  been  fine,  but  some  of  the  music  .  .  .  was  not  prop 
erly  phrased,  though  containing  a  few  good  ideas.  Next 
me  sat  Mr.  G ,  first  clarionet.  Presently  the  com 
munion  service  came  on ;  Mr.  G watched  with 

great  curiosity.  It  was  the  first  one  he  had  ever  seen  ! 
When  he  saw  the  priest  blessing  the  bread,  he  leaned 
over  to  Wysham  (who  is  a  devout  member  of  this 
church)  and  asked,  with  great  interest :  "  Does  he  eat 
#//that?"  Afterward,  when  the  bread  was  distributed 
to  the  kneeling  people,  I  observed  him  make  gestures 
of  much  disgust  at  the  smallness  of  the  portion  given  to 
each,  and  finally  he  informed  Wysham  that  that  would 
not  begin  to  be  enough  for  him  !  Ah,  these  heathenish 
Germans  !  Double-bass  was  a  big  fellow,  with  a  black 
mustache,  to  whom  life  was  all  a  joke,  which  he  ex 
pressed  by  a  comical  scowl,  and  Viola  was  a  young 
Hercules,  so  full  of  beer  that  he  dreamed  himself  in 
heaven,  and  Oboe  was  a  young  sprig,  just  out  from 
Munich,  with  a  complexion  of  milk  and  roses,  like  a 
girl's,  and  miraculously  bright  spectacles  on  his  pale 
blue  eyes,  and  there  they  sat  —  Oboe  and  Viola  and 
Double-bass  —  and  ogled  each  other,  and  raised  their 
brows,  and  snickered  behind  the  columns,  without  a 
suspicion  of  interest  either  in  the  music  or  the  service. 
Dash  these  fellows,  they  are  utterly  given  over  to  heath 
enism,  prejudice  and  beer  —  they  ought  to  be  annihi- 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  89 

lated ;  if  they  do  get  control  of  the  age,  life  will  be  a 
mere  barbaric  grab  of  the  senses  at  whatever  there  is  of 
sensual  good  in  the  world.  ...  In  the  church  some 
times,  when  looking  around  out  of  my  dream  for  a 
moment,  I  would  find  .  .  .  only  the  small  choir-boy, 
who,  in  default  of  a  music-stand,  held  up  my  music 

for  me. 

BALTIMORE,  MD.,  December  26,  1873. 

For  this  enclosed  $25  (and  $5  more  which  I  have 
kept)  I  have  played  the  first-flute  parts  in  Beethoven's 
Fifth  Symphony ;  the  Ossian  overture,  the  staccato  air  of 
the  "  Magic  Flute,"  the  Nordische  Suite,  the  overture  to 
"  La  Dame  Blanche,"  the  "  Symphonic  Fantastique  "  of 
Berlioz,  the  Mendelssohn  Concerto  in  G  minor  for  piano 
and  orchestra ;  the  "  Hunt  of  Henry  IV.  "  overture  by 
Mehul;  the  Rondo  Concerto  of  Chopin  for  piano  and 
orchestra,  and  the  overture  of  Masaniello.  If  they  would 
only  pay  me  by  heart-beats,  by  agitations,  by  mental 
strains,  by  delights,  by  agonies,  then  I  would  already  be 
grown  rich  on  these  aforementioned  pieces.  They  say, 
however,  that  I  play  them  very  nicely,  and  that  is  some 
reward.  .  .  .  To-morrow  night  we  have  our  second 
grand  concert ;  the  "  Symphonic  Fantastique,"  the  Mehul 
overture,  the  Masaniello  overture,  the  concerto  (Rondo) 
of  Chopin  (J.  N.  Pattison,  of  New  York,  plays  the  Piano 
Forte  part)  ;  these  are  all  the  orchestral  pieces.  There 
are,  besides,  a  song  from  "  L'Africaine,"  with  flute  obli 
gate  which  Wysham  is  to  play,  and  some  baritone  songs. 

BALTIMORE,  January  3,  1874. 

Our  concert  opened  with  a  symphony  of  Mozart  in  G 
minor.  An  allegro  movement,  full  of  delicious  inter 
changes,  betwixt  the  wind  and  the  strings,  comes  pres 
ently  to  an  abrupt  end;  then  a  \QT\%  Andante  in  six-eight 


90  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

time,  which  seems  to  be  a  record  of  sweetest  confidences, 
whispered  between  the  first  flute  and  the  first  violins,  as 
if  they  were  two  young  girls  just  commencing  a  friend 
ship  !  and  of  occasional  intrusions  of  the  oboe  (as  of  a 
girl  de  trop)  as  well  as  of  sage  advice  volunteered,  here 
and  there,  by  the  elderly  bassoons.  Finally  this  conver 
sation  ends,  and  thereunto  succeeds  a  minuet,  stately 
yet  coquettish,  courteous  yet  piquant,  grave,  with  the 
measured  steps  of  dignitaries  and  of  queenly  women,  yet 
illumined  by  the  gleam  of  bright  eyes  and  the  flash  of 
silver  shoe-buckles.  Then  the  Finale  closes  all  with  a 
great  outburst  of  joy,  which  breaks  out  in  a  thousand 
lovely  phrases  of  self-repetition,  and  at  last  completely 
and  satisfactorily  expresses  itself. 

Then  a  lady  howled  dismally  a  beautiful  air  from  the 
"  Barber  of  Seville."  Then  should  have  come  a  concerto 
for  oboe  with  orchestra,  but  Oboe's  lips  were  chapped ; 
he  vowed,  until  he  shook  his  spectacles  off,  that  he  konnte 
nicht  spielen,  whereupon  Maestro  Hamerik  announced 
.  x0  \^  the  fact,  and  announced  the  further  fact  that  Mr.  Sidney 
t^lv*/^nier  and  Mr-  Henry  Wysham  had  kindly  consented 
to  play  a  simple  melody,  in  place  of  the  oboe  concerto. 
Then  those  two  gentlemen  appeared,  and,  amidst  great 
applause,  advanced  to  the  front.  They  played  "  Adieu, 
Dear  Land,"  S.  L.  taking  first,  and  H.  C.  W.  skirmishing 
about  as  second,  Mr.  Hamerik  palpitating  a  lovely  accom 
paniment  on  the  piano.  Ah,  my  friend,  need  I  tell  thee 
how  the  heart  of  this  same  S.  L.  beat  along  every  note 
of  this  lovely  song,  —  am  I  not,  too,  an  exile  from  my 
dear  Land,  which  is  always  the  land  where  my  loved 
ones  are?  We  brought  down  the  house,  and  responded 
to  a  thundering  encore  with  "  Annie  Laurie  "  (which  I 
hate  with  all  my  heart,  but  Harry  liketh  it,  and  we  had 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  91 

not  time  to  discuss) .  Then  came  our  piece  de  resistance, 
the  "  Dream  of  Christmas "  overture,-  by  Ferdinand 
Killer.  Sweet  Heaven  —  how  shall  I  tell  the  gentle 
melodies,  the  gracious  surprises,  the  frosty  glitter  of  star 
light,  and  flashing  of  icy  spiculcz  and  of  frozen  surfaces, 
the  hearty  chanting  of  peace  and  good-will  to  men,  the 
thrilling  pathos  of  virginal  thoughts  and  trembling  antici 
pations  and  lofty  prophecies,  the  solemn  and  tender 
breathings-about  of  the  coming  reign  of  forgiveness  and 
of  love,  and  the  final  confusion  of  innumerable  angels 
flying  through  the  heavens  and  jubilantly  choiring 
together.  .  .  . 

We  closed  with  a  grand  March  of  Mendelssohn's,  found 
after  his  death,  and  played  by  us  to-night  for  the  first 
time  in  this  country  :  the  strangest  combination  of  Men 
delssohn's  most  beautiful  effects,  —  particularly  of  reeds 
—  with  a  singularly  interpolated  old  Highland-pibroch 
sort  of  air  in  the  middle,  as  if  the  ghost  of  the  "  March 
of  the  Cameron  Men  "  were  flitting  about  through  the 
loveliest  modern  orchestral  melodies.  .  .  . 

BALTIMORE,  January  22,  1874. 

Aye,  Thomas  hath  played  for  me  :  two  nights. 

I  am  beginning,  in  midst  of  the  stormy  glories  of  the 
orchestra,  to  feel  my  heart  sure,  and  my  soul  discrimi 
nating.  Not  less  do  I  thrill,  to  ride  upon  the  great 
surges ;  but  I  am  growing  calm  enough  to  see  the  star 
that  should  light  the  musician,  and  presently  my  hand 
will  be  firm  enough  to  hold  the  helm  and  guide  the  ship 
that  way.  Now  I  am  very  quiet ;  I  am  waiting.  The 
music  of  the  modern  orchestra  is  greatly  defective  in  the 
///,  and ///passages.  When  the  frenzy  of  the  finale 
comes  upon  these  players  of  Thomas',  for  instance,  it  is 


92  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

too  much  a  frenzy,  the  orchestral  voices  are  in  each 
other's  way ;  it  is  rather  a  noise,  than  music.  And  then 
the  invention  of  the  orchestral  composers,  since  Beetho 
ven,  is  so  poor  !  We  hear  so  much  that  we  privately 
forgive,  in  consideration  of  some  special  little  strain  that 
we  liked,  e.  g.,  the  Rubenstein  piece,  "  Ivan  IV.,"  to 
night.  It  was,  of  course,  all  in  the  Russian  tone ;  but  at 
least  one-half  of  it  was  noise.  In  the  midst  of  the 
uproar,  suddenly  a  dead  silence ;  then  the  'cellos  glided 
into  a  religious  quartette,  simple  as  the  open  heavens, 
beautiful  beyond  description.  The  proportion  between 
this  quartette  and  the  noise  was  too  greatly  in  favor  of 
the  latter. 

To  see  Thomas  lead  ...  is  music  itself !  His  baton 
is  alive,  full  of  grace,  of  symmetry;  he  maketh  no 
gestures,  he  readeth  his  score  almost  without  looking 
at  it,  he  seeth  everybody,  heareth  everything,  warneth 
every  man,  encourageth  every  instrument,  quietly,  firmly, 
marvellously.  Not  the  slightest  shade  of  nonsense,  not 
the  faintest  spark  of  affectation,  not  the  minutest  grain 
of  effect  is  in  him.  He  taketh  the  orchestra  in  his  hand 
as  if  it  were  a  pen,  —  and  writeth  with  it. 

BALTIMORE,  February  3,  1874. 

Oh,  if  thou  couldst  hear  a  symphony  of  Cade's  which 
we  rehearsed  this  morning !  It  is  lovely,  not  with  the 
passionate  loveliness  that  bringeth  pain,  but  with  the 
dainty  and  childlike,  yet  strong,  loveliness  of  a  mountain 
(say),  all  covered  with  flowers  and  many-colored  rocks, 
and  green  leaves,  and  sparkling  springs.  , 

BALTIMORE,  February  7,  1874. 

.  .  .  Randolph's  criticism  in  the  "  Gazette  "  on  the 
English  and  American  music  was  in  the  main  just,  — 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  93 

though  of  course  a  little  exaggerated,  to  eke  out  the 
spiciness  thereof.  He  and  I  had  a  good  laugh  over  it, 
next  morning.  I  was  disappointed  in  Sterndale  Ben 
nett's  music.  If  I  had  not  heard  so  much  better,  per 
haps  I  would  have  enjoyed  it ;  and  he  does  occasionally 
get  off  a  beautiful  idea ;  but  his  music  is  too  unsubstan 
tial,  you  bring  nothing  with  you  away  from  it,  it  is  much 
like  Mendelssohn-and-water.  The  other  pieces  of  the 
programme  were  equally  unsubstantial.  The  overture  to 
"  Deborah  "  was  pretty,  —  nothing  more  ;  the  "  Fugue," 
by  Deems,  was  a  very  good  fugue,  doubtless,  but  was 
abominably  dismal  music ;  and  the  march  by  Rosewald 
(who  is  leader  of  our  first  violins)  was  decidedly  the 
best  piece  on  the  programme,  but  was  somewhat  marred 
by  a  palpable  imitation  of  wind-effects  in  a  march  of 
Mendelssohn's  we  played  some  weeks  ago. 

Our  concert  to-night  is  to  be  a  very  beautiful  one  in 
the  orchestral  features.  We  are  to  play  the  "  Fernand 
Cortez  overture,"  by  Spontini,  the  "Water-Carrier" 
overture,  by  Cherubini,  the  "Fantastic  Symphony," 
by  Mercadante,  and  the  "  William  Tell "  overture,  by 
Rossini.  This  last  has  a  celebrated  flute  solo,  in  a 
beautiful  Pastoral  Scene,  and  I  have  had  many  compli 
ments  on  my  rendition  of  it  at  the  rehearsals.  I  do  not 
think  much  of  it,  though  :  'tis  not  the  sort  of  playing  I 
like  most  for  the  flute,  and  is  more  admired  for  its  diffi 
culty,  I  think,  than  for  its  beauty. 

hath  but  now   brought  over  a  duo  for  me  to 

practise  for  next  Sunday  night.  Start  not !  T  is  a 
charity  concert,  and  are  we  not  allowed  to  lift  the  poor 
out  of  the  ditch  o'  Sundays  ? 


94  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

BALTIMORE,  February  7,  1874. 

I  am  just  from  the  concert.  It  was  splendidly  suc 
cessful.  The  orchestra  was  in  fine  trim,  the  audience 
in  a  good-humor,  the  singing  delightful,  the  piano-play 
ing  simply  exquisite.  The  "  Tell "  overture  went  off 
well,  save  that  the  'cellos,  which  have  a  beautiful  intro 
duction,  were  not  as  well  harmonized  as  might  be.  I 
had  another  triumph  in  the  Pastoral  Scene.  When 
Oboe  and  I  had  finished  our  long  interchange  of  con 
fidences,  the  audience  broke  into  applause,  which  was 
only  stilled  by  the  continuance  of  the  overture,  and  the 
Conductor  came  down  and  said  that  it  was  beautifully 
played.  My  greatest  trouble  in  playing  has  been  to 
keep  in  tune  with  the  oboe ;  the  tone  of  that  instrument 
is  so  strange,  so  strident,  and  so  indecisive  when  one 
is  close  to  the  player  (he  sitteth  immediately  behind 
me),  that  I  have  infinite  difficulty  in  accommodating 
my  pitch  to  his.  Some  of  the  notes  in  his  instrument, 
too,  are  incorrect;  and  inasmuch  as  he  cannot  change 
his  tones,  and,  as  my  music  is  often  written  in  octaves 
above  his,  I  have  to  use  the  utmost  caution  and  skill 
in  turning  the  embouchure  in  and  out,  so  as  to  be  in 
perfect  accord  with  him.  For  some  weeks  I  did  not 
succeed  in  this,  and  suffered  untold  agonies  thereanent ; 
but  I  believe  I  have  now  discovered  all  his  quips  and 
his  quirks,  and  to-night  we  were  in  lovely  harmony  with 
each  other. 

I  read  far  better  than  at  first,  and  am  greatly  im 
proved  in  the  matter  of  keeping  time  in  the  orchestra. 
How  much  I  have  learned  in  the  last  two  months  !  I 
am  not  yet  an  artist,  though,  on  the  flute.  The  tech 
nique  of  the  instrument  has  many  depths  which  I  had 
not  thought  of  before,  and  I  would  not  call  myself  a 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  95 

virtuoso  within  a  year.  I  feel  sure  that  in  that  time  I 
could  do  anything  possible  to  the  instrument.  But 
thou  wouldst  not  know  my  tone,  now  !  How  I  wish  I 
might  play  for  thee  !  I  have  just  composed  a  thing  I 
call  "  Longing."  ...  I  have  not  played  it  for  any  one, 
save  for  myself,  when  my  heart  is  quite  too  full.  I  sus 
pect  the  people  in  the  house  think  I  am  stark  mad,  in 
the  twilights,  when  I  send  this  strenuous  sigh  out  on  the 
air.  Suppose  a  tuberose  should  just  breathe  itself  out 
in  perfume,  and  disappear  utterly  in  a  sweet  breath : 
thus  my  heart  in  this  melody. 

BALTIMORE,  February  8,  1874. 

If  the  constituents  and  guardians  of  my  childhood  — 
those  good  Presbyterians  who  believed  me  a  model  for 
the  Sunday-school  children  of  all  time  —  could  have 
witnessed  my  acts  and  doings  this  day,  I  know  not  what 
groans  of  sorrowful  regret  would  arise  in  my  behalf. 
For  —  the  same  being  Sunday  —  I  went  at  two  o'clock 
to  rehearse  with  an  orchestra  in  which  I  was  engaged, 
under  Herr  Leuschow,  for  the  concert  of  the  Germania 
Mannerchor  of  Baltimore,  which  is  to  be  next  Wednes 
day  night.  I  carried  with  me  [somewhat  hidden  in  my 
heart,  whereby]  I  felt  safe  and  happy.  Having  arrived 
at  the  beautiful  new  hall  which  this  Mannerchor  have 
just  built  —  and  the  opening  of  which  is  the  occasion  of 
the  concert  —  I  found  they  were  waiting  for  me,  and  so 
quickly  took  my  seat  and  fell  to.  First,  a  Concerto  for 
Violin  and  Orchestra,  by  De  Beriot,  light,  lovely,  airy 
and  wondrous  delicate ;  then  the  "  Jiibel "  overture  of 
Weber,  full  of  glory  and  triumph,  ending  with  "  God 
Save  the  Queen,"  which  is  set  in  four  sharps  and 
carrieth  the  poor,  straining  Flauto  Primo  clear  up  to 


96  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 


JL 


and  thereabouts,  without  pity ;  then  in  filed  a  great 
chorus  of  male  and  female  voices,  and  we  all  plunged 
into  that  great  "  Athalia  "  of  Mendelssohn  for  orchestra 
and  chorus.  Borne  on  the  noble  surges  of  the  up-swell 
ing  tones,  I  floated  hither  and  thither  in  that  sea  of 
glory-turned-into-music.  Presently  I  found  myself  play 
ing  almost  alone,  in  octaves  with  a  lovely  soprano  voice ; 
I  turned  my  eyes  involuntarily,  as  we  sailed  along  to 
gether,  and  my  gaze  fell  full  upon  a  pair  of  beautiful 
liquid,  gazelle  eyes  which,  by  a  similar  impulse,  I  sup 
pose,  had  sought  mine ;  she  —  I  mean  the  Eyes  — 
looked  me  full  in  the  face  for  a  moment,  then  with  a 
half-smile,  full  of  dignity  and  sweetness,  turned  to  her 
notes  again :  which  also  I  had  to  do,  not  having  seen  or 
heard  the  piece  before,  and  so,  mutually  cheered  by  this 
dumb  exchange  of  sympathy,  we  sang  and  played  to 
gether  to  the  end  of  the  piece,  which  occupied,  I  should 
think,  near  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  When  we  had 
finished  I  rushed  to  Herr  Leuschow  and  procured  a 
presentation  to  the  fair  Soprano.  I  found  her  a  charm 
ing  young  woman,  bright-faced  and  witty,  .  .  .  and  had 
a  little,  really  refreshing,  champagny  talk  with  her.  .  .  . 
Then  we  played  a  cavatina  from  "  Ernani,"  sung  by  a 
stout  German  lady;  then  the  "  Sonnenuntergang "  by 
Flamma,  for  chorus  of  men's  voices  and  orchestra. 

Then  I  took  a  great  draught  of  beer,  and  found  it  was 
six  o'clock.  I  had  had  nothing  to  eat  since  eight  this 
morning :  so  hied  me  to  a  restaurant,  and  dined  on  oys- 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  97 

ters  and  a  chop.  Then  home,  laid  me  down  for  twenty 
minutes,  rose,  dressed  in  full  concert-suit,  and  went  forth 

with to  the  great  hall  of  the  Masonic  Temple. 

Here  we  found  a  large  audience  assembled  to  hear  a 
concert  for  the  benefit  of  the  Carmelite  Nuns,  and  being 
quickly  called,  forth  stepped  the  little  man  and  I  on  the 
stage,  and  dashed  into  the  elaborate  tootle-ty-tootle-ty  of 
Rabboni's  duo  on  themes  from  "  Rigoletto."  I  did  laugh 
inwardly,  as  I  looked  about  the  hall,  to  see  the  big  Irish 
men,  servant-maids  and  all,  good  Catholics  every  one, 
gazing  and  listening,  rapt.  They  encored  us,  and  we 
responded  with  "  Adieu,  Dear  Land." 

Then,  home,  and  here  sit  I  ...  famished  for  .  .  . 
my  highest-of-life.  .  .  . 

Bohemianism  and  compliments  fill  not  my  heart. 

BALTIMORE,  February  12,  1874. 

.  .  .  To  offset  this  Jeremiad,  I  may  tell  thee  that 
from  a  hundred  indications  I  gather  that  I  have  con 
quered  myself  a  place  here  as  an  orchestral  player. 
The  prejudices,  the  cliques,  the  claques,  the  difficulties 
I  had  to  encounter  were  innumerable  and  appalling ; 
but  by  straightforward  behavior  and  hard  work  and 
steady  improvement,  I  have  finally  managed  to  beat 
down  and  trample  on  every  one  of  them.  I  believe  my 
"Tell"  solo,  on  Saturday  night,  quite  gave  the  coup  de 
grdce  to  them,  and  the  managers  of  the  smaller  orchestras 
about  town  have  freely  proffered  engagements  for  odd 
occasions,  although  I  do  not  belong  to  the  "  Musical 
Union,"  which  embraceth  nearly  all  the  musicians  in 
town,  and  which  obligeth  all  its  members  to  employ 
each  other  in  preference  to  outsiders.  I  played  last 
night  with  the  Germania  Mannerchor  Orchestra ;  next 

7 


98  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

week  I  am  to  play  with  the  Liederkranz ;  and  have  four 
other  engagements  of  similar  character.  I  was  also  en 
gaged  to  play  solos  in  two  concerts  at  Wheeling,  Va. ; 
but  this  has  been  postponed  until  after  Lent ;  .  .  .  and 
the  leader  of  the  Harmonic  Mannerchor  has  engaged 
me  for  a  solo  at  their  next  concert,  the  date  of  which 
is  not  yet  determined. 

I  am  copying  off — in  order  to  try  the  publishers 
therewith  —  a  Danse  des  Moucherons  (midge-dance) , 
which  I  have  written  for  flute  and  piano,  and  which  I 
think  enough  of  to  let  it  go  forward  as  Op.  i.  Dost 
thou  remember  one  morning  last  summer,  Charley  and  I 
were  walking  in  the  upper  part  of  the  yard,  before  break 
fast,  and  saw  a  swarm  of  gnats,  of  whose  strange  evolu 
tions  we  did  relate  to  thee  a  marvellous  tale  ?  I  have 
put  the  grave  oaks,  the  quiet  shade,  the  sudden  sun 
light,  the  fantastic,  contrariwise,  and  ever-shifting  midge- 
movements,  the  sweet  hills  afar  off,  ...  all  in  the 
piece,  and  thus  /  like  it ;  but  I  know  not  if  others 
will,  I  have  not  played  it  for  anybody. 

BALTIMORE,  April  3,  1874. 

I  am  just  come  from  Venice,  .  .  .  and  have  strolled 
home  through  the  moonlight,  singing  serenades.  .  .  . 

—  In  plain  terms,  —  sweet  Heaven,  how  I  do  abhor 
these  same  plain  terms  —  I  have  been  playing  "  Stra- 
della"  (in  the  orchestra  at  the  Concordia  Theatre),  and 
I  am  full  of  gondellieds,  of  serenades,  of  balconies  with 
white  arms  leaning  over  the  balustrades  thereof,  of  gleam 
ing  waters,  of  lithe  figures  in  black  velvet,  of  stinging-sweet 
coquetries,  of  diamonds,  daggers,  and  desperadoes. 

Truth  to  say,  the  performance  was  but  indifferent 
good,  saving  a  lovely  tenor ;  but  I  had  never  heard  the 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions  99 

opera  before,  and  I  cannot  tell  thee  the  intense  de 
light  which  these  lovely  conceptions  of  Flotow  gave  me. 
/  The  man  has  put  Venice,  lovely,  romantic,  wicked- 
sweet  Venice,  into  music,  and  the  melodies  breathe 
out  an  eloquence  that  is  at  once  honied  and  spicy, 
at  once  sentimental  and  powerful,  at  once  languid  and 
thrilling.  .  (  . 

BALTIMORE,  April  9,  1874. 

.  .  .  Last  night  I  won  [from  music]  much  glory,  play 
ing  thy  sonata  of  Kuhlau  (which  thou  broughtest  me  from 
Savannah)  to  the  most  critical  audience  in  town,  —  viz., 
at  a  private  concert  of  the  Germania  Club. 

I  have  now  to  rush  down  to  the  Concordia,  to  rehearse 
with  an  orchestra  there.  To-night  I  am  going  to  play 
that  lovely  serenade  which  we  heard  at  Theodore 
Thomas'  concert  in  Macon  —  for  flute  and  French 
horn.  I  play  it  with  a  noble  'cellist,  the  horn  part  hav 
ing  been  arranged  for  violoncello.  I  also  play  first  flute 
to-night  in  the  orchestra  which  is  to  accompany  the 
Liederkranz  in  bringing  out  Mendelssohn's  "  Forty- 
second  Psalm." 

NEW  YORK,  September  3,  1874. 

I  think  I  have  invented  a  flute  which  will  go  down  to 
G  below  the  staff,  and  which  will  entirely  remedy  the 
imperfections  that  now  exist  in  that  part  of  the  flute 
that  extendeth  below  D.  I  have  stirred  up  Badger 
about  it  —  with  infinite  labor,  for  the  old  Satyr  is  far 
more  concerned  about  silver  dollars  than  about  silver 
flutes,  and  is  almost  inexpugnably  conservative.  He  is 
always  wonderfully  kind  to  me,  however,  and  gazes  on 
me  with  a  half-amused  smile  when  I  am  talking,  as  if 
I  were  a  precocious  child  whom  he  was  showing  off.  I 
have  some  good  hopes  of  the  new  flute.  O  .  .  .  dream 


loo  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

with  me  that  some  day  we  will  listen  to  an  orchestra  in 
which  shall  be  as  many  first  flutes  as  first  violins,  and  as 
many  second  flutes  as  second  violins  ! 

And  why  should  it  not  be  so?  What  reason  is  there 
in  the  nature  of  things  why  the  violins  should  be  the 
orchestra,  and  the  flutes  and  other  instruments  mere 
adjuncts  ?  I  say  this  not  out  of  any  foolish  advocacy  of 
the  flute  :  thou  knowest  I  love  the  violin  with  my  whole 
soul.  No,  I  speak  in  advocacy  of  pure  music.  No  one 
can  hear  an  orchestra  constituted  like  Thomas'  (e.  g.) 
without  being  convinced  that,  with  all  its  perfection  of 
handling,  its  material  is  not  perfect.  The  Tutti  m  fff  \<$> 
always  a  grief  to  me.  I  defy  any  musician  to  extract 
anything  out  of  such  passages  unless  he  have  the  score 
before  him,  or  is  otherwise  familiar  with  the  theme. 
Then  he  can  faintly  discern  the  idea :  but  to  those  who 
are  not  musicians  it  is  as  sound  and  fury,  signifying 
nothing.  .  .  . 

BROOKLYN,  September  7,  1874. 

.  .  .  Badger  worked  for  me  like  a  Trojan  all  Satur 
day  afternoon,  experimenting  on  my  new  long  flute. 
We  were  much  put  to  it  for  some  time  to  get  a  certain 
motion  that  was  essential ;  but  I  kept  him  at  it,  in  spite 
of  the  most  dismal  croaking  on  his  side,  until  our  efforts 
were  crowned  with  brilliant  success.  I  am  going  over 
now  to  recommence  work  on  it.  ... 

September  17,  1874. 

.  .  .  The  long  flute  is  nearly  done,  and  I  think  it 
will  work.  It  hath  revealed  sundry  hitches  which  have 
taxed  my  ingenuity  severely,  but  I  have  managed  to 
overcome  them  all,  and  the  final  prospect  is  now 
good. 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions        ioi 

September  21,  1874. 

.  .  .  The  long  flute  will  succeed,  in  time.  It  is  near 
enough  finished  for  me  to  see  that.  Dost  thou  know, 
everything  I  do  or  write  is  so  new  and  upturn-y  of  old 
mouldy  ideas,  here,  that  I  have  infinite  trouble.  E.  g., 
old  Badger  has  been  making  flutes  for  forty  years,  and 
when  any  luckless  wight  maketh  suggestion  to  him 
thereanent,  he  smileth  a  battered  and  annihilating  smile, 
which  saith  plainly  enough,  Pooh,  I  exhausted  all  that 
a  half-century  ago.  Now  this  Satyr  fought  me  at  every 
stage  and  up  every  step  of  my  long  flute.  He  declared 
in  the  very  beginning  that  it  was  impossible  :  that  a  tube 
so  long  could  not  be  filled  by  the  human  breath,  that  a 
column  of  air  so  long  could  not  be  made  to  vibrate,  etc., 
and  that  he  had  long  ago  tried  it  thoroughly,  and  satis 
fied  himself  it  was  physically  non-achievable.  This  last, 
of  course,  staggered  me ;  yet  with  foolhardiness  (as  it  is 
called)  I  worked  at  him  until  I  got  him  to  draw  out  a 
long  tube,  upon  which  in  a  few  minutes  I  demonstrated 
to  him  that  the  G  was  not  only  a  possible  but  a  beau 
tiful  note.  He  then  retreated  to  his  second  line,  and 
entrenched  himself  behind  the  C-key,  averring  that  a 
key  could  not  be  constructed  which  would  make  C  and 
at  the  same  time  hold  down  the  four  keys  of  the  right 
hand.  Then  I  proved  to  him  it  could  be  done,  by  good 
logic,  and  he  finally  made  the  key  I  wanted  and  it  was 
done.  Thus  from  breastwork  to  breastwork  hath  he 
been  driven ;  in  three  days  more  I  expect  him  to 
surrender  at  discretion.  .  .  . 

September  25,  1874. 

...  I  am  going  to  move  heaven  and  earth  for  ways 
and  means  to  take  lessons  from  Dr.  Damrosch,  who  is 


IO2,  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

leader  of  the  Arion  Society  and  of  the  Oratorio  Society  of 
New  York  and  of  the  Handel  and  Haydn  Society  of 
Brooklyn.  He  is  a  beautiful  violinist,  and  is  considered 
at  the  head  of  fine  music  in  New  York.  A  slender,  blue- 
eyed  man,  with  a  broad  forehead,  is  he ;  and  a  man  of 
culture  withal.  .  .  . 

BROOKLYN,  October,  1874. 

...  On  Tuesday  I    went  by  invitation   to    P 's 

rooms  to  play  flute  quartettes.  They  made  me  take  the 
first  part,  and  placed  before  me  a  terribly  difficult  quar 
tette  of  Walckier's,  which  I  had  never  seen  before.  /  I 
could  never  tell  how  beautiful  it  was  :  such  long-drawn 
chords  with  sweet  thoughts  in  them,  like  flowers  hid  in 
green  leaves.  >,  I  went  through  it  in  a  great  ecstasy,  with 
out  a  break.  When  we  finished,  P cried  out  to  me, 

"  Well,  sir,  you  are  the  best  sight-reader  I  ever   saw ; 

H would  have  broken  down  at  every  second  bar." 

Thou  wouldst  be  greatly  pleased  to  know  how  greatly  I 
have  improved  in  this  particular,  by  a  little  practice  in 
it,  which  I  have  just  had  for  the  first  time  in  my  life. 

During  the  past   two    weeks    L has    been    coming 

twice  a  week  to  my  room,  and  playing  for  an  hour  old- 
fashioned  duos  which  I  never  saw  before.  This  has  set 

me   up  greatly  in   reading.     Last   night    Mme.    A 

gave    a   little    musicale,    in    order   that  Dr.    C ,  an 

amateur  flutist,  of  Brooklyn,  might  hear  me  play.  He 
brought  a  lot  of  music  wholly  new  to  me,  and,  although 
embarrassed  at  playing  at  sight  before  so  many  people, 
and  with  an  accompanist  who  was  also  reading  at  sight, 
I  went  through  in  grand  style,  amidst  such  showers  of 
applause  and  of  compliments  as  quite  reddened  my 
face.  .  .  .  \ 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions         103 

NEW  YORK,  Sunday t  October  18,  1874. 
I  have  been  in  my  room  all  day ;  and  have  just  con 
cluded  a  half-dozen  delicious  hours,  during  which  I  have 
been  devouring,  with  a  hungry  ferocity  of  rapture  which  I 
know  not  how  to  express,  "The  Life  of  Robert  Schumann," 
by  his  pupil,  von  Wasielewski.  This  pupil,  I  am  sure, 
did  not  fully  comprehend  his  great  master.  /  I  think  the 
key  to  Schumann's  whole  character,  with  all  its  labyrin 
thine  and  often  disappointing  peculiarities,  is  this  :  That 
he  had  no  mode  of  self-expression,  or,  I  should  rather 
say,  of  self-expansion,  besides  the  musical  mode.  This 
may  seem  a  strange  remark  to  make  of  him  who  was  the 
founder  and  prolific  editor  of  a  great  musical  journal, 
and  who  perhaps  exceeded  any  musician  of  his  time  in 
general  culture.  But  I  do  not  mean  that  he  was  con 
fined  to  music  for  self-expression,  though  indeed,  the 
sort  of  critical  writing  which  Schumann  did  so  much  of 
is  not  at  all  like  poetry  in  its  tranquillizing  effects  upon 
the  soul  of  the  writer.  What  I  do  mean  is  that  his 
sympathies  were  not  big  enough,  he  did  not  go  through 
the  awful  struggle  of  genius,  and  lash  and  storm  and 
beat  about  until  his  soul  was  grown  large  enough  to 
embrace  the  whole  of  life  and  the  All  of  things,  that  is, 
large  enough  to  appreciate  (if  even  without  understand 
ing)  the  magnificent  designs  of  God,  and  tall  enough  to 
stand  in  the  trough  of  the  awful  cross-waves  of  circum 
stance  and  look  over  their  heights  along  the  whole  sea 
of  God's  manifold  acts,  and  deep  enough  to  admit  the 
peace  that  passeth  understanding.  This  is,  indeed,  the 
fault  of  all  German  culture,  and  the  weakness  of  all  Ger 
man  genius.  A  great  artist  should  have  the  sensibility 
and  expressive  genius  of  Schumann,  the  calm  grandeur  of 
Lee,  and  the  human  breadth  of  Shakespeare,  all  in  one. 


104  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Now  in  this  particular,  of  being  open,  unprejudiced, 
and  unenvious,  Schumann  soars  far  above  his  brother 
Germans ;  he  valiantly  defended  our  dear  Chopin,  and 
other  young  musicians  who  were  struggling  to  make 
head  against  the  abominable  pettiness  of  German  preju 
dice.  But,  withal,  I  cannot  find  that  his  life  was  great, 
as  a  whole  :  I  cannot  see  him  caring  for  his  land,  for  the 
poor,  for  religion,  for  humanity :  he  was  always  a  rest 
less  soul ;  and  the  ceaseless  wear  of  incompleteness 
finally  killed,  as  a  maniac,  him  whom  a  broader  Love 
might  have  kept  alive  as  a  glorious  artist  to  this  day. 

The  truth  is,  the  world  does  not  require  enough  at 
the  hands  of  genius.  Under  the  special  plea  of  greater 
sensibilities,  and  of  consequent  greater  temptations,  it 
excuses  its  gifted  ones,  and  even  sometimes  makes  "  a 
law  of  their  weakness."  But  this  is  wrong  :  the  sensibil 
ity  of  genius  is  just  as  much  greater  to  high  emotions  as 
to  low  ones;  and  whilst  it  subjects  to  stronger  temp 
tations,  it  at  the  same  time  interposes  —  if  it  will — 
stronger  considerations  for  resistance.1 

These  are  scarcely  fair  things  to  be  saying  apropos  of 
Robert  Schumann :  for  I  do  not  think  he  was  ever 
guilty  of  any  excesses  of  genius  —  as  they  are  called  :  I 
only  mean  them  to  apply  to  the  unrest  of  his  life. 

—  And  yet,  for  all  I  have  said,  how  his  music  does  burn 
in   my  soul !     It   stretches   me   upon  the   very  rack  of 
delight;    I   know  no    musician  that  fills    me  so    full  of 
heavenly  anguish,  and  if  I  had  to  give  up  all  the  writers 
of  music  save  one,  my  one  should  be  Robert  Schumann.  • 

—  Some  of  his   experiences  cover  some  of  my  own  as 
aptly  as  one-half  of  an  oyster-shell  does  the  other  half. 
Once    he    went   to   Vienna  —  that    gay   New   York   of 
Austria ;.  and  he  writes  back  to  his  sister  Theresa :  — 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions         105 

"...  So  my  plans  have  as  yet  progressed  but  little. 
The  city  is  so  large  that  one  needs  double  time  for 
everything.  ...  But  to  tell  you  a  secret,  I  shouldn't 
like  to  live  here  long,  and  alone;  serious  men  and 
Saxons  are  seldom  wanted  or  understood  here.  ...  In 
vain  do  I  look  for  musicians ;  that  is,  musicians  who  not 
only  play  passably  well  upon  one  or  two  instruments, 
but  who  are  cultivated  men,  and  understand  Shakespeare 
and  Jean  Paul.  ...  I  might  relate  all  this  at  full  length. 
But  I  don't  know  how  the  days  fly,  here ;  I  Ve  been 
here  three  months  to-day;  and  the  post-time,  four 
o'clock,  is  always  just  at  hand.  .  .  .  Clara  goes  the  first 
of  January  to  Paris,  and  probably  to  London  later.  We 
shall  then  be  far  apart.  Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
not  bear  it.  But  you  know  the  reason:  she  wants  to 
make  money,  of  which  we  are  indeed  in  need.  May 
the  good  God  guard  her,  the  good,  faithful  girl !  " 

NEW  YORK,  October  29,  1874. 

To-day  I  played  for  the  great  Dr.  Damrosch;  and 
won  him.  I  sang  the  "Wind-Song  "  to  him.  When  I 
finished  he  came  and  shook  my  hand,  and  said  it  was 
done  like  an  artist :  that  it  was  wonderful,  in  view  of  my 
education;  and  that  he  was  greatly  astonished  and 
pleased  with  the  poetry  of  the  piece  and  the  enthusiasm 
of  its  rendering.  He  then  closed  the  door  on  his 
next  pupil,  and  kept  him  waiting  in  the  front  parlor 
a  half  hour,  while  giving  me  a  long  talk.  I  had  told 
him  that  I  wished  to  pursue  music,  f  He  said  :  "  Do 
you  know  what  that  means?  It  means  a  great  deal 
of  work,  it  means  a  thousand  sacrifices.  It  is  very 
hazardous." 

I  replied,  I  knew  all  that ;  but  it  was  not  a  matter  of 


106  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

mere  preference,  it  was  a  spiritual  necessity,  I  must  be 
a  musician,  I  could  not  help  it.  j 

This  seemed  to  please  him ;  and  he  went  on  to  speak 
as  no  other  musician  here  could  speak,  of  many  things. 
He  is  the  only  poet  among  the  craft  here ;  and  is  a 
thoroughly  cultivated  man,  in  all  particulars,  f  He  offered 
to  do  all  he  could  in  my  behalf;  and  was  altogether  the 
gentleman  and  the  wise  artist. 

Thou  wilt  share  with  me  the  pleasure  I  take  in  think 
ing  that  I  have  never  yet  failed  to  win  favor  with  an 
artist.  Although  I  am  far  more  independent  of  praise 
than  formerly,  and  can  do  without  it  perfectly  well :  yet, 
when  it  comes,  I  keenly  enjoy  it;  particularly  from 
one  who  is  the  friend  of  Liszt,  of  Von  Biilow,  and  of 
Wagner. 

Moreover,  I  played  abominably :  being  both  tired, 
weakened  by  the  warm  weather,  and  excited. 

I  am  pleased  that  Hamerik  should  have  so  cordially 
invited  me  back  to  my  old  place;  and  anticipate  a 
winter  in  Baltimore  full  of  substantial  work.  I  find  I 
need  thorough-bass  sorely,  and  am  studying  it  with 
might  'and  main. 

BROOKLYN,  November  8,  1874. 

...  I  have  spent  the  whole  Sunday  in  my  room,  in 
reading,  with  slow  labor  —  for  my  German  is  but  limited 
—  Wagner's  "  Rhein-Gold,"  the  first  part  of  his  great 
Trilogy,  or  rather  Tetralogy  —  for  it  has  four  parts  — 
which  I  am  going  to  translate  unless  some  happy  mortal 
gets  ahead  of  me.  The  conception  is  very  fine ;  but 
there  is  something  in  it,  or  rather  something  not  in  it, 
which  I  detect  in  everything  that  any  German  has  yet 
done  in  the  way  of  music  or  poetry.  I  know  not  exactly 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions         107 

what  to  call  it,  or  indeed  how  to  define  it.  It  is  that 
(if  I  may  express  it  in  a  very  roundabout  way)  senti 
ment  lying  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  author  which  would 
produce  on  his  face  a  quiet,  wise  smile  all  the  while  he 
was  writing,  a  sort  of  consciousness  underlying  all  his 
enthusiasms  (which  are  not  at  all  weakened  thereby), 
that  God  has  charge,  that  the  world  is  in  His  hands, 
that  any  bitterness  is  therefore  small  and  unworthy  of  a 
poet.  This  was  David's  frame  of  mind ;  it  was  also 
Shakespeare's.  No  German  has  approached  it  except 
perhaps  Richter.  .  .  . 

1874. 

.  .  .  The  great  deeps,  the  wild  heights,  the  passion 
ate  cities,  the  happy  vales,  the  dear  secret  springs,  the 
broad  and  generous-bosomed  rivers,  the  manifold  ex 
quisite  flowers,  the  changeful  seasons,  the  starry  skies, 
the  present,  the  past,  the  future  ...  of  the  world  of 
music :  into  these  he  hath  not  been,  into  these  will  he 
never  enter.  But  he  hath  not  one  infinitely  sweet  to 
present  ever  before  him  the  glorious  ideal  of  his  youth, 
to  keep  him  ever  trustful  in  the  brightness  and  reality 
and  sufficiency  of  love,  to  hold  him  ever  self-watchful 
and  solicitous  to  be  all  that  is  high  and  manly  and 
noble,  in  order  to  maintain  himself  in  some  way  worthy 
of  his  unapproachable  Beloved. 

BALTIMORE,  January  3,  1875. 

Doth  not  this  enclosed  programme  show  a  feast  of 
glory?  And  how  we  did  play  it !  We  were  forty- four 
in  Orchestra,  and  we  all  played  as  if  our  soul's  welfare 
hung  on  each  note.  How  can  I  tell  thee  the  heaven  of 
it,  to  me? 

Then,  after  the  concert,  Mr.  Sutro  and  his  wife  in- 


io8  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

vited  Hamerik,  Seifert  (leader  of  the  violins,  just  from 
Berlin),  Wysham,  and  myself  to  take  champagne  with 
them  at  their  rooms,  where  we  sat  until  far  into  the 
morning,  talking  music. 

My  playing  is  greatly  improved ;  and  my  flute  now  fits 
upon  the  oboe  like  the  down  upon  a  peach. 

My  head  is  all  full  of  my  "  Gnat-dance,"  which  I  am 
going  to  turn  into  a  symphony,  for  orchestra  with  flute 
obligate, 

BALTIMORE,  January  6,  1875. 

...  I  had  a  long  talk  to-day  with  Mr.  Uhler, 
Librarian  of  the  Peabody.  He  tells  me  that  there  is  a 
full  set  of  apparatus  for  the  Physics  of  Music  lectures 
now  at  the  Institute,  and  that  they  are  not  even  un 
packed  !  I  have  the  strongest  hope  of  being  able  to 
accomplish  my  project  anent  the  establishment  of  such 
a  chair  in  connection  with  the  Conservatory.  I  am 
working  hard  at  all  the  books  I  can  find  in  the  library 
on  the  subject,  and  I  am  going  over  in  a  few  moments 
to  spend  the  balance  of  the  evening  there. 

BALTIMORE,  January  9,  1875. 

.  .  .  Our  second  concert  comes  off  to-night,  and  we 
are  to  play  such  beautiful  music  as  makes  my  heart 
tremble  even  to  think  of.  First  comes  Beethoven's 
Second  Symphony,  one  written  before  the  dreadful  deaf 
ness  had  come  upon  his  ears  and  pierced  into  his  heart. 
The  whole  three  movements  are  ravishing  melodies  from 
beginning  to  end,  and  the  second  movement,  a  Lar- 
ghetto,  is  as  if  the  wind  instruments  and  strings  were 
having  a  game  of  Hide-and-Seek  in  Heaven.  Then 
Mme.  De  Ryther,  a  lady  in  form  and  manner  and  stage- 
appearance  much  like  our  dear  departed  G ,  is  to 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions         109 

sing,  with  a  glorious  contralto  voice,  a  noble  aria  from 
Handel's  little-known  opera,  "  Rinaldo."  Then  we  play 
Bernhard  Scholz's  overture,  "  Im  Freien  "  ("  In  the  free 
air  "),  an  exquisite  embodiment  of  tender  sky,  of  birds, 
of  joyful  green  leaves  and  lush  grasses  and  brilliant 
flowers.  Then  we  have  some  English  songs  by  Mme. 
De  Ryther,  and  conclude  all  with  Karl  Reinecke's  lovely 
Overture  to  Calderon's  "  Dame  Kobold." 


,  January  12,  1875. 

I  have  a  nice  piano  just  arrived.  ...  I  found  I  could 
not  write  my  Gnat  Symphony  without  it.  I  am  going 
to  put  into  the  slow  movement  of  the  Gnat  Symphony  my 
No.  i  which  thou  didst  admire  so  long  ago  :  taking  the 
melody  first  for  the  flute,  then  for  the  violins.  The 
melody  seems  fairly  ravishing  to  me. 

.  .  .  The  fury  of  creation  is  on  me  to-day,  and  I  am 
now  going  down  for  some  score-paper,  and  to  mail 
this  .  .  .  then  to  the  pen. 

Hamerik  is  interested  in  the  chair  of  physics,  and 
will  take  me  to  see  Mr.  E  -  ,  who  is  chief  among  the 
trustees  in  the  Conservatory  department.  .  .  . 

BALTIMORE,  January  20,  1875. 

On  Monday  night  came  Hamerik  to  spend  the  even 
ing  with  me.  At  seven  came  he  ;  and  at  2  A.  M.  left  he. 
Such  another  music-talk  have  I  never  had.  The  fellow 
is  a  rare  genius  :  his  music  is  the  most  poetic  subtlety 
of  tone-combination  that  could  be  imagined. 

BALTIMORE,  January  24,  1875. 

Our  concert  last  night  was  magnificently  successful. 
Our  first  number  was  the  greatest  of  modern  works, 
the  Symphony  by  Svendsen.     The  third  movement  is  a 


no  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

long  and  intricate  Scherzo,  of  indescribable  lightness  and 
beauty;  and  is,  throughout,  a  solo  for  the  first  flute, 
supported  by  a  multitudinous  accompaniment  of  the 
reeds  and  strings.  The  instant  we  had  finished,  the 
audience  furiously  demanded  an  encore,  the  Director 
smiled  his  congratulations  over  upon  me,  and  we  plunged 
into  it  again,  like  a  flock  of  butterflies  drunk  with  sun 
light  swooping  upon  a  flower-bed. 

The  whole  Symphony  gave  me  immeasurable  delight. 
I  am  so  much  improved  now  in  playing,  that  I  can 
preserve  my  internal  dignity  in  great  measure  free  from 
the  dreadful  distractions  of  solicitude,  and  thus  my  soul 
revels  in  the  midst  of  the  heaven  of  these  great  sym 
phonic  works  with  almost  unobstructed  freedom.  .  .  . 

I  believe  I  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  discover  a 
very  curious  fact  in  relation  to  the  vibration  of  strings, 
which  will  exert  an  important  influence  in  explaining 
the  difference  of  timbre  between  stringed  instruments 
and  wind;  and  perhaps  in  other  directions  which  I 
have  not  had  time  to  think  toward.  I  have  communi 
cated  the  substance  of  the  proposition  to  Professor  F.  H. 
Smith  of  the  University  of  Virginia,  —  a  very  eminent 
authority  in  such  matters,  —  and  he  replies  that  my  idea 
is  unquestionably  correct.1  .  .  . 

1  Professor  Smith  wrote  :  — 

UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA,  January  21,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  think  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  your  prop 
osition  is  correct.  I  would  prefer  a  slightly  different  enunciation 
of  it.  Calling  the  excursion  of  the  string  from  one  side  to  the 
other  a  semi-vibration,  I  would  say,  "  Every  transverse  vibration 
of  a  tense  string  must  necessarily  originate  four  longitudinal 
semi-vibrations  of  the  same  string."  The  reason  for  the  change 
is  this  :  that  while  the  transverse  vibration  presents  all  the  phases 
of  such  a  motion,  the  longitudinal  disturbance  includes  only  such 
phases  as  belong  to  dilatation.  A  complete  longitudinal  wave 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions         1 1 1 

BALTIMORE,  February  7,  1875. 

.  .  .  Our  concert  last  night  —  whereof  I  send  the 
beautiful  programme  —  was  brilliantly  successful.  We 
had  only  rehearsed  the  Mozart  Concerto  once,  Mr.  Hoff 
man  not  arriving  until  Friday ;  but  it  went  off  nobly, 
on  the  part  of  the  orchestra,  and  Mr.  Hoffman  played 
it  with  a  subtle  delicacy  of  touch  and  of  expression  of 
which  I  had  never  dreamed  him  capable.  The  Proch 
variations  were  sung  charmingly  by  Miss  Thursby,  I 
standing  with  her  and  playing  the  flute  obligate :  all 
with  such  effect  that  I  had  twice  to  lead  her  back  in 
response  to  vociferous  encores.  The  third  movement 
of  the  Hiller  symphony  was  full  of  lovely  flute-effects ; 
and  my  playing  won  me  many  compliments  from  the 
stolid  Germans  of  the  orchestra. 

BALTIMORE,  February  26,  1875. 

Well  then,  installment  No.  i  shall  relate  to  thee  in  how 
wholly  unorthodox  a  manner  —  yet  to  me  how  devout ! 
—  I  spent  last  Sunday.  .  .  . 

At  half-past  ten  I  was  ready  for  action,  and  proceeded 
to  meet  my  colleagues  of  the  wind  quintette  —  with 
whom  I  was  to  play  at  the  concert  that  night  —  for  the 

embraces  both  a  tract  of  condensation  and  one  of  rarefaction.  In 
the  present  instance  the  longitudinal  effect  consists  of  a  series  of 
semi-waves,  all  of  the  same  kind,  z/w.,  dilatation. 

A  very  pretty  illustration  of  your  proposition  is  found  in  Melde's 
expt.,  in  which  a  string  properly  stretched  is  fastened  to  one  of 
the  tines  of  a  tuning-fork,  and  excited  to  transverse  vibration  by 
the  vibration  of  the  latter.  To  produce  the  same  vibration  in  the 
string,  the  tuning-fork  must  make  twice  as  many  vibrations  per 
second,  when  put  in  the  position  A  [where  the  two  tines  are  in  a 
line  with  the  string],  as  are  required  when  it  is  put  in  the  position 
B  [where  a  line  between  the  two  tines  is  at  right  angles  to  the 
string].  That  is,  fork  A  must  be  an  octave  above  fork  B. 

Very  truly  yours,  FRANCIS  H.  SMITH. 


H2  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

rehearsal  of  our  piece ;  which,  by  reason  of  short  notice 
and  of  the  exactions  of  our  orchestra  rehearsals,  we  had 
not  been  able  to  rehearse  before.  This  occupied  until 
after  one  o'clock,  when  I  rushed  back  to  my  room, 
made  some  changes  of  toilet,  and  repaired  to  the 

P s',  where  I  was  promised  to  dinner.     After  dinner, 

Mr.  P and  I  looked  over  a  magnificent  bound  col 
lection  of  colored  prints  representing  the  progress  of 
Art  in  all  times  and  countries :  till  half-past  five,  when  I 
returned  to  my  room,  fell  on  the  bed  and  rested  an 
hour ;  then  tea ;  then  a  hasty  arrayal  in  dress-coat  and 
white  tie,  and  a  flight  to  the  Germania  Hall  where  we 
were  to  play  the  quintette.  Which  having  played,  I 
rushed,  at  nine  o'clock,  to  the  house  of  M.  Rabillon, 
where  I  had  been  engaged  to  play  in  a  string  quintette 
of  Haydn  for  three  strings,  flute,  and  piano;  Mme. 
Rabillon  playing  the  piano  part,  and  her  daughter  play 
ing  the  violoncello  part.  Arriving  here,  found  the  violin 
and  the  viola  men  had  not  come  :  so  played  trios  with 
mother  and  daughter  (violoncello,  flute,  and  piano),  and 
chatted  with  the  father  until  eleven,  then  took  leave  of 
these  charming,  cultivated,  unaffected,  simple-mannered 
French  people,  and  got  me  home  to  bed,  tired  as  thou 
mayst  imagine. 

Of  course,  this  was  an  exceptional  Sunday.  I  usually 
spend  the  day,  until  dinner-time,  in  my  room,  writing  to 
thee,  and  meditating  upon  God.  I  then  dine  at  Mrs. 
Bird's,  and  spend  my  evening  alone  in  my  room,  bringing 
my  life  up.  .  .  . 

BALTIMORE,  February  28,  1875. 

.  .  .  We  had  a  beautiful  concert  last  night :  the 
Seventh  Symphony  of  Beethoven,  the  great  concerto  of 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions         113 

Schumann  for  piano  and  orchestra,  the  "  Marriage  of 
Figaro  ;  "  winding  up  with  the  dreary  old  "  Good-Night  " 
Symphony  of  Haydn,  in  which  each  of  us  had  a  candle 
attached  to  his  stand  (the  hall  being  in  total  darkness), 
which  he  blew  out  as  his  part  was  finished  (the  parts 
came  to  an  end  successively),  until  finally  naught  was 
left  but  a  lonesome  old  fiddler  who  dismally  sawed 
away,  but  at  last  left,  the  leader  beating  time  for  a  few 
bars  longer,  then  sadly  blowing  out  his  solitary  candle 
and  moving  away. 

BALTIMORE,  March  12,  1875. 

...  I  have  so  many  fair  dreams  and  hopes  about 
music  in  these  days.  It  is  a  gospel  whereof  the  people 
are  in  great  need.  As  Christ  gathered  up  the  ten  com 
mandments  and  re-distilled  them  into  the  clear  liquid  of 
that  wondrous  eleventh  —  Love  God  utterly,  and  thy 
neighbor  as  thyself  —  so  I  think  the  time  will  come  when 
music,  rightly  developed  to  its  now-little-foreseen  gran 
deur,  will  be  found  tq  be  a  later  revelation  of  all  gospels 
in  one.  Only  think  how  it  is  beginning  to  do  the  people's 
worship  in  the  churches,  here,  of  late  !  : 

I  was  at  one  the  other  day  where  half  of  the  service 
was  music,  and  if  the  man  at  the  organ  had  been  at  all 
a  preacher  in  soul  (alas  !  he  was  not) ,  he  would  have 
dealt  out  the  far  heavenlier  portion  of  the  doctrine.  .  .  . 

BALTIMORE,  March  18,  1876. 

I  have  just  come  from  the  last  concert,  whereof  I  send 
thee  herein  a  programme.  A  certain  sense  of  melan 
choly  is  upon  me  —  the  last  of  anything  is  per  se  not 
joyful  —  but  I  quite  kill  it  with  the  thought  that  I  am 
now  entirely  free  ...  as  soon  as  I  have  finished  my 

8 


114  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Centennial  Ode.1  I  do  not  know  how  soon  this  will  be. 
It  ought  to  be  in  the  hands  of  the  printers  and 
engravers  early  in  April,  but  it  has  been  so  much 
interrupted  by  illness  and  a  thousand  little  extraneous 
matters,  that  I  fear  it  will  be  late.  However,  the  God 
of  the  humble  poet  is  very  great,  and  I  have  had  so 
many  signal  instances  of  His  upholding  grace  that  I  do 
not  now  ever  quite  despair  of  anything. 

Thomas  is  to  be  here  next  Wednesday,  and  I  hope 
then  to  have  some  final  report  from  him  as  to  whether 
he  will  be  able  to  put  in  another  flute  upon  his  orchestra. 

I  have  received  a  copy  of  the  piano  score  of  the  Can 
tata,  which  I  will  send  on  Monday.  .  .  .  The  poem 
appears  on  the  first  page  in  connected  shape,  as  well  as 
in  its  proper  place  along  with  the  music.  This  piano 
score  is  only  written  for  the  purpose  of  drilling  the  cho 
rus  ;  the  full  orchestra  score  will  soon  be  printed,  and 
I  will  then  send  thee  a  copy  of  that.  ...  I  am  continu 
ally  and  increasingly  amazed  at  the  intense  rate  of  life 
at  which  I  have  to  live  here.  There  is  never  a  moment 
when  I  have  what  could  be  called  leisure  :  a  duty  of 
some  sort  is  always  ready,  I  am  always  pressed  for 
time,  and  that  too  at  the  total  neglect  of  scores  of  visits 
which  I  ought  to  pay  here.  I  do  not  even  have  time  to 
think  out  why  it  is  so. 

I  hope  thou  wilt  like  my  dactyls ;  I  am  greatly  inter 
ested  in  them.  ...  If  I  were  only  fresh  to  write  this 
poem  !  but  it  is  done  with  a  laggard  spirit. 

After  a  concert,  not  dated. 

.  .  .  The  great  Beethoven  concerto,  the  Mendelssohn 
concerto  (for  violin  and  orchestra),  the  "Wolfram's  Song," 
1  "  The  Psalm  of  the  West,"  for  Lippincott's  Magazine. 


A  Poet's  Musical  Impressions         115 

these  will  kill  me  if  I  do  not  hear  them  some  day  [as  I 
would]  !  I  dare  not  talk  about  them  more.  There  was 
the  largest  audience  ever  assembled  in  that  hall.  Even 
the  aisles  were  crowded  with  ladies,  standing.  .  .  . 

How  well  I  now  understand  the  foundation  which 
music  has,  in  the  culture  of  the  soul !  A  broad  and 
liberal  spirit  wielding  the  baton  to-night  could  have  set 
the  hearts  of  fifteen  hundred  people  a-fire.  As  it  was, 
they  were  (merely)  greatly  pleased. 

There  is  a  certain  heaven  in  store  for  me :  it  is  to  play 
with  thine  accompaniment,  some  day,  certain  songs  out 
of  a  "  Schubert  Album"  which  I  have.  Oh,  if  thou 
couldst  hear  the  passion,  the  melodious  eloquence,  the 
pleading  pathos  wherewith  my  dear  Silvertongue1  ren- 
dereth  these ! 

PHILADELPHIA,  May  28,  1876. 

To-day  ...  I  had  an  invitation  from  Wehner  to  come 
and  spend  the  morning  with  him.  I  went  at  half-past 
ten,  flute  in  hand.  His  knowledge  of  English  is  even 
less  than  mine  of  German,  and  we  wasted  not  a  word  in 
talk  beyond  the  usual  salutations,  but  went  immediately 
to  our  matters,  by  a  delightful  plunge  into  a  volume  of 
Kuhlau's  duos  which  I  had  not  before  seen.  We  were 
in  a  cool,  retired  parlor,  the  morning  was  sweet,  there 
was  no  third  person  in  the  room,  the  music  was  of  the 
simple,  grave,  religious  character  of  Bach's,  and  my 
heart  was  all  a- cry.  At  the  end  of  each  movement,  as 
we  played  straight  through  the  book,  my  big,  phlegmatic, 

1  A  silver  Boehm  flute,  in  one  long  tube,  which  Mr.  Lanier 
played  for  a  time.  He  finally  returned  to  the  wooden  Boehm, 
having  a  mouthpiece  of  ivory  inserted  to  procure  greater 
resonance. 


1 1 6  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

square-built  German  cried  "  Gut !  "  and  looked  mean 
ingly  upon  me;  I  said  " Wunderschon,"  and  looked 
meaningly  upon  him ;  and  at  the  end  of  two  hours  I 
made  a  hasty  ade  with  a  full  heart,  and  came  back  to 
the  Peacocks'  for  dinner. 


Letters  between  two  Poets: 
Bayard  Taylor  and  Sidney  Lanier 


Letters  between  two  Poets :   Bayard 
Taylor  and  Sidney  Lanier 

THESE  letters  are  the  formal  record  of  the  friendship 
between  two  poets;  and  while  the  self-evident  reason 
for  putting  them  before  the  public  must  lie  in  the  dis 
cussions  they  contain  on  matters  of  literary  art,  there  is 
a  rather  special  human  interest  in  the  relation  which 
called  them  forth.  For  this  was  a  friendship  which  did 
not  mature  slowly,  restrained  by  the  cautious  prudence 
of  alert  self-consciousness,  but  sprang  at  once  into  full, 
generous,  and  whole-hearted  existence,  as  if  aware  how 
brief  a  time  were  allotted  it. 

In  the  Letters  to  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock,1  the  circum 
stances  which  brought  about  the  first  epistolary  acquaint 
ance  appear  in  detail.  Mr.  Gibson  Peacock,  editor  of 
the  Philadelphia  "  Evening  Bulletin,"  and  a  warm  friend 
and  admirer  of  Mr.  Lanier,  had  sent  the  younger  poet's 
newly  published  "  Symphony  "  to  Mr.  Taylor;  and  when 
the  latter's  hearty  appreciation  of  this  poem  reached  the 
author,  it  called  forth  the  letter  which  inaugurated  their 
friendship  and  a  correspondence  that  lasted,  almost 
without  a  break,  until  Mr.  Taylor's  death.  Since  this 
correspondence  is  practically  complete  (with  the  excep 
tion  of  a  few  extracts  that  appear  in  the  "  Life  and  Let- 
1  Chapter  I. 


I2o  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

ters  of  Bayard  Taylor"),  the  text  has  been  allowed  to 
explain  itself,  with  no  elucidating  comment  save  in  one 
or  two  instances. 

It  should  be  remembered  that  at  this  time  Bayard 
Taylor  had  been  a  very  prominent  figure  in  the  literary 
world  for  over  twenty-five  years.  As  author,  translator, 
traveller,  diplomatist  and  lecturer,  his  position  had  long 
been  assured;  four  years  before,  his  twenty  or  thirty 
previous  volumes  had  culminated  in  that  great  trans 
lation  of  "  Faust  "  which  is  in  itself  a  literary  heritage 
that  any  man  might  consider  sufficient  for  a  life  work. 
Sidney  Lanier's  name,  on  the  contrary,  was  almost 
unknown.  Only  a  few  months  before  had  appeared 
the  first  poem  which  brought  him  any  general  recogni 
tion,1  and  his  opening  letter  expresses  his  deep  sense  of 
generous  and  sympathetic  appreciation  from  the  older 
man,  whose  own  battle  with  Obscurity  was  but  a  dim 
memory. 

Early  in  August,  1875,  Mr.  Lanier  made  a  trip  to 
New  York,  and  his  first  letter  is  from  Brooklyn :  — 

195  DEAN  ST.,  BROOKLYN,  N.  Y.,  August '7,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  SIR  :  When  a  man,  determined  to  know 
as  well  what  is  under  as  what  is  above,  has  made  his 
plunge  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  great  Sea  Doubtful  of 
poetic  endeavor  and  has  looked  not  only  upon  the  en 
chanted  caverns  there  but  upon  the  dead  bodies  also, 
there  comes  a  moment,  as  his  head  re-emerges  above 
the  surface,  when  his  eyes  are  a-blink  with  salt  water 
and  tears,  when  the  horizon  is  a  round  blur,  and  When 
he  wastes  strength  that  might  be  applied  to  swimming 

1  "  Corn,"  in  Lippincott's  Magazine  for  February,  1874. 


Letters  between  Two  Poets 


121 


in  resolutely  defying  what  seems  to  be  the  gray  sky 
overhead. 

In  such  a  moment,  a  friendly  word  —  and  all  the  more 
if  it  be  a  friendly  word  from  a  strong  swimmer  whom 

one  perceives  far  ahead  advancing  calmly  and  swiftly 

brings  with  it  a  pleasure  so  large  and  grave  that,  as  vol 
uble  thanks  are  impossible,  so  a  simple  and  sincere 
acknowledgment  is  inevitable. 

I  did  not  know  that  my  friend  Mr.  Peacock  had  sent 
you  my  "  Symphony  "  until  I  received  his  letter  enclosing 
yours  in  reference  to  that  poem  :  your  praise  came  to 
me,  therefore,  with  the  added  charm  of  surprise.  You 
are  quite  right  in  supposing  the  Makamat  of  Hariri  of 
Basra  to  be  unknown  to  me.  How  earnestly  I  wish  that 
they  might  be  less  so,  by  virtue  of  some  account  of  them 
from  your  own  lips  !  I  could  never  describe  to  you 
what  a  mere  drought  and  famine  my  life  has  been,  as 
regards  that  multitude  of  matters  which  I  fancy  one 
absorbs  when  one  is  in  an  atmosphere  of  art,  or  when 
one  is  in  conversational  relation  with  men  of  letters,  with 
travellers,  with  persons  who  have  either  seen,  or  written, 
or  done  large  things.  Perhaps  you  know  that,  with  us 
of  the  younger  generation  in  the  South  since  the  War, 
pretty  much  the  whole  of  life  has  been  merely  not- 
dying. 

I  will  be  in  Brooklyn  about  a  month ;  and  if  you  should 
come  to  New  York  in  that  time  I  beg  you  will  send  me 
a  line  to  above  address,  telling  me  where  I  can  find  you, 
and  when,  so  that  I  may  not  miss  you. 

I  remember  how  Thomas  Carlyle  has  declared  a  man 
will  be  strengthened  in  his  opinion  when  he  finds  it 
shared  by  another  mortal ;  and  so  enclose  a  slip  which 
a  friend  has  just  sent  me,  from  the  Boston  "  Transcript," 


122  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

containing   some   pleasant   words   about  my  poems  by 
Mr.  Calvert. 

Pray  believe  that  I  shall  always  hold  myself,  and 
always  rejoice  to  be  held  by  you,  as 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

BOSTON,  August  17,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  SIR  :  I  find  your  letter  here,  awaiting  my 
return  from  New  Brunswick.  I  am  exceedingly  glad 
that  you  are  to  remain  for  a  month,  because  now  I 
can  be  sure  of  seeing  you  —  although  not  immedi 
ately,  as  I  should  wish,  were  I  absolute  master  of 
my  days. 

I  go  from  here  to  Penn'a  for  a  week,  but  shall  return 
to  New  York  on  the  28th,  to  attend  the  celebration  of 
Goethe's  i26th  birthday,  and  shall  then  be  nearly  a 
week,  alone  and  idle,  at  my  residence,  No.  31  West 
6ist  St.,  where  I  beg  you  will  come,  say  on  Sunday 
the  2 pth,  after  which  we  can  arrange  how  to  meet  again. 
Or,  if  you  desire  to  attend  the  Goethe  celebration  — 
Bryant  gives  the  address  and  my  unlucky  self  the  ode 
—  please  send  me  a  line  to  Kennett  Square,  Penn'a, 
and  I  can  easily  get  an  invitation  for  you  from  the 
Goethe  Association. 

I  write  hurriedly,  finding  much  correspondence  await 
ing  me  here,  —  so  can  only  repeat  how  much  joy  the 
evidence  of  a  new,  true  poet  always  gives  me  —  such 
a  poet  as  I  believe  you  to  be.  I  am  heartily  glad  to 
welcome  you  to  the  fellowship  of  authors,  so  far  as  I 
may  dare  to  represent  it;  but,  knowing. the  others,  I 
venture  to  speak  in  their  names  also.  When  we  meet, 
I  hope  to  be  able  to  show  you,  more  satisfactorily  than 
by  these  written  words,  the  genuineness  of  the  interest 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  123 

which  each  author  always  feels  in  all  others ;  and  per 
haps  I  may  be  also  able  to  extend  your  own  acquaint 
ance  among  those  whom  you  have  a  right  to  know. 
Excuse   this   hurried   scrawl,  and   believe  me,  most 

sincerely 

Your  friend,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

195  DEAN  ST.,  BROOKLYN,  N.  Y.,  August  19,  1875. 

DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR:  It  would  give  me  a  great 
pleasure  to  hear  you  read  your  Goethe  ode,  and  — 
though  trembling  a  little  at  the  idea  of  giving  trouble 
to  a  busy  man  —  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to 
avail  myself  of  your  kind  offer  to  intercede  for  an 
invitation. 

I  thank  you  for  the  fair  words  your  letter  brings,  and 

am  always 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

KENNETT  SQUARE,  PENN.,  August  23,  1875. 
DEAR  MR.  LANIER  :  Passing  through  New  York,  I  met 
the  President  of  the  Committee  of  Arrangement  for  the 
Goethe- Festival,  and  he  informed  me  that  a  box  for  six 
persons  would  be  placed  at  my  disposal.  Now,  as  my 
literary  friends  are  separately  provided  for,  and  there  is 
a  possibility  of  my  wife,  only,  needing  a  seat,  I  have 
thus  a  seat  (or  two,  if  Mrs.  Lanier  is  with  you)  ready. 
If  any  tickets  for  the  six  box-seats  are  sent  to  me,  I  will 
forward  two  at  once  :  if  not,  the  best  thing  will  be  for 
you  to  come  to  my  quarters  —  No.  31  West  6ist  St. — 
by  7  o'clock,  next  Saturday  evening.  At  Fulton  Ferry 
ask  for  the  "  Belt  Railroad,"  which  follow  to  the  junc 
tion  of  59th  St.  and  9th  Avenue.  Go  up  9th  Avenue  to 
6ist  St.  —  two  short  blocks  —  and  No.  31  is  the  second 
door  East,  north  side.  It  will  take  you  about  an  hour, 


1 24  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

from  Fulton  Ferry.  I  know  of  no  other  practicable 
way  of  meeting  you  on  that  evening,  as  I  cannot  leave 
here  until  Saturday,  and  shall  only  arrive  an  hour  or 
two  before  the  hour  mentioned. 

Relying  upon  your  coming,  I  will  postpone  further 
talk  until  then. 

Ever  sincerely  yours,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

Again,  three  days  later,  Mr.  Taylor  writes  in  relation 
to  the  seats  for  the  impending  Goethe  festival :  — 

KENNETT  SQUARE,  PENN'A,  August  26,  1875. 
DEAR  MR.  LANIER  :  The  box  tickets  have  been  sent 
to  me  here,  and  I  lose  no  time  in  enclosing  two.  The 
celebration  begins  at  7^  instead  of  8.  It  will  be 
less  trouble  for  you  to  go  direct  to  the  Hippodrome 
from  Brooklyn ;  but  I  depend  on  your  spending  Sunday 
afternoon  with  me  at  31  West  6ist  St.  I  may  say 
that  the  engraved  card  of  invitation  says  "  Full  dress  for 
gentlemen,"  but  I  presume  it  is  not  rigorously  meant, 
except  for  the  actors.  If  Mrs.  Lanier  is  not  with  you, 
there  may  be  some  friend  whom  you  would  like  to  take 
along.  Pardon  my  haste  :  the  Ode  is  only  this  moment 
finished,  and  must  be  copied. 

Ever  sincerely,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

195  DEAN  ST.,  BROOKLYN,  N.  Y.,  August  30,  1875. 

DEAR    MR.  TAYLOR  :    The    three   numbered    sonnets 

enclosed l  are  in  continuation  of  those  in  the  magazine 

which  1  mail  herewith.     Any  criticism  you  may  make 

on  them  when  we  meet  again,  I  will  take  as  a  special 

1  Part  of  "  Acknowledgment  "  (see  "  Poems  ").  The  magazine 
referred  to  was  the  September  "  Lippincott's,"  which  contained 
the  four  sonnets  called  "  In  Absence." 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  125 

grace  :  for  they  form  the  beginning  of  a  series  which  I 
will  probably  be  writing  all  my  life,  knowing  no  other 
method  of  heart's-ease  for  my  sense  of  the  pure  wor- 
shipfulness  which  dwells  in  the  Lady  they  celebrate. 

The  other  two  are  only  a  couple  of  little  snatches 
which  were  both  born  last  Thursday;  and  I  don't 
know  any  other  reason  for  sending  them  to  you,  save 
that  they  're  curiously  unlike  —  for  twins. 

Sincerely  yours,  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

Thursday  Afternoon,  September  2,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  LANIER  :  I  neglected  to  tell  you, 
yesterday,  that  my  address  until  the  2Oth  will  be : 
Kennett  Square,  Pennsylvania.  If  you  go  to  Boston, 
don't  fail  to  let  me  know  in  advance,  so  that  I  may 
send  you  letters  to  Longfellow  and  others.  I  saw 
Hassard  again  to-day,  and  he  will  be  very  glad  to  see 
you  personally. 

I  can't  tell  you  how  rejoiced  I  am  to  find  in  you 
the  genuine  poetic  nature,  temperament,  and  morale. 
These  are  the  necessary  conditions  of  success  (not  in 
the  lower  popular  meaning  of  the  word)  —  of  the 
possibility  of  steadily  approaching  one's  ideal,  for  we 
never  can,  or  ought  to,  reach  it.  All  I  can  say  is : 
"Be  of  good  cheer!" 

So,  till  we  meet  again,* 

Faithfully  your  friend,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

WESTMINSTER  HOTEL,  NEW  YORK  CITY, 
September  25,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  For  some  time  after  my  last 
charming  day  with  you,  it  really  seemed  as  if  the  ghost 

*  And  afterwards,  of  course ! 


126  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

of  Dr.  Sangrado  —  him  of  bloody  memory  —  had  ob 
tained  permission  to  work  his  will  upon  me,  as  the 
Devil  did  upon  Job  :  I  was  unmercifully  phlebotomized  ; 
haemorrhage  came  upon  haemorrhage. 

Which  I  would  not  mention,  except  that  I  cannot 
bear  you  should  believe  any  light  cause  able  to  prevent 
me  from  immediately  acknowledging  a  note  so  thor 
oughly  kind  and  heartsome  as  your  last  to  me.  When 
it  came  I  \Fas  not  allowed  the  privilege  either  of  speak 
ing  or  writing. 

But  I  'm  getting  in  prime  condition  again,  and  anti 
cipate  with  keen  eagerness  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
when  you  return. 

Pray  send  me  a  line,  to  let  me  know  when  that  will  be. 
I  Ve  moved  over  to  New  York ;  and  my  address  is  at 
the  Westminster  Hotel,  this  city. 

My  illness  has  deprived  me  of  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
Mr.  Hassard ;  but  I  hope  to  call  on  him  in  a  day  or 
two.  If  you  should  see  him  before  I  do,  I  will  thank 
you  if  you  will  say  as  much  to  him. 

An  accumulation  of  work  keeps  me  at  my  desk  the 
whole  of  each  day  and  much  of  each  night.  I  pray 
you,  therefore,  invert  the  littleness  of  these  words,  and 
therewith  measure  the  scope  of  that  affection  wherein 
I  am 

Faithfully  your  friend, 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 

31  WEST  6iST  ST.,  Tuesday,  September  28,  1875. 
MY  DEAR  MR.  LANIER  :    Yours   of  Saturday  has   just 
reached  me  here.    While  at  Cedarcroft  I  heard  (through 
Peacock)  of  your  visit  to  Philadelphia  and  of  the  unfor 
tunate  return  of  your  physical  troubles  —  which  I  pray 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  127 

may  be  over  now,  banished  by  the  beautiful  spirit  of 
this  autumn  weather. 

We  are  in  all  the  agonies  of  moving  —  but  a  good 
fate  brings  us  within  two  short  blocks  of  your  hotel. 
Between  now  and  Friday  night  we  hope  to  be  comfort 
ably  settled  in  the  Stuyvesant  Building,  142  East  i8th 
St.,  and  I  shall  run  around  to  see  you  as  soon  as  the 
books  and  furniture  are  in  their  places.  On  Saturday 
evening  we  have  the  monthly  meeting  of  the  Century 
Club  (in  1 5th  St.)  and  I  hope  you  will  be  strong 
enough  to  go  with  me.  Bryant  is  President,  and  you 
will  see  Stoddard,  Stedman,  and  many  other  good 
fellows.  Pray  don't  make  any  engagement  elsewhere, 
if  you  go  out  evenings. 

I  need  n't  excuse  my  haste  this  morning :  you  know 
what  packing  is.  I  look  forward  with  delight  to  many 
more  hours  together. 

Ever  faithfully  yours,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

WESTMINSTER  HOTEL,  N.  Y.,  September  29,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR:  Your  note  comes  flushed 
with  good  news.  For  bringing  me  within  two  blocks  of 
you  I  will  in  the  most  sublime  manner  forgive  Fate  a 
dozen  heinous  injuries. 

I  will  eagerly  await  you  on  Friday  evening ;  and  will 
be  delighted  to  go  with  you  to  the  Century  Club. 

I  write  in  the  greatest  haste,  to-day  not  being  long 
enough  by  some  six  hours  for  what  I  have  to  do  before 
it  ends. 

—  Which  makes  me  realize  how  glorious  is  Friendship, 
to  whose  immortality  the  poor  necessities  of  night  and 
sleep  do  not  exist. 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 


128  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

WESTMINSTER  HOTEL,  Friday  Noon. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  Pray  tell  me  if  I  must  go  in 
full  dress  to-night,  —  or  only  in  a  black  frock. 

Also,  behold,  in  this  I.  sonnet,  how  this  morning  the 
idea  which  you  were  good  enough  to  present  me,  last 
night,  would  sing  itself  in  me  till  I  could  do  no  less  than 
put  it  on  paper. 

Also  tell  me,  when  we  meet  to-night,  if  you  have  now 
any  objections  to  the  II.  and  III.,  —  which  you  have 
seen  before. 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 

W.  HOTEL,  Sunday  Morning. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  Any  time  between  now  and  to 
morrow  night,  won't  you  please  look  over  this  Cushman 
stanza,  and  tell  me  when  we  next  meet  if  you  do  not 
think  it  more  consistent  than  formerly?  I  think  to 
send  it  to  Scribner's,  if  peradventure  it  may  find  favor 
in  their  eyes. 

And  won't  you  accept  the  MS.  of  this  little  Song? 
I  hope  you  're  quite  well  to-day.     Don't  trouble  to 
answer  this. 

Hastily  (and  yet  not  hastily) 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 

1425  WALNUT  ST.,  PHILADELPHIA,  PA., 
October  15,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  I  hope  you  '11  like  this 
little  song,1  which  is  but  lately  an  inhabitant  of  this 
planet. 

We  —  we  is  Mr.  Peacock  and  I  —  were  too  sorry  you 
could  n't  come  over  last  night :  though  of  course  neither 

i  "Rose-Morals." 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  129 

of  us  hoped  much  from  the  mere  possibility  that  you 
might  be  able  to  come.  It  is  likely  I  will  be  here  a 
week,  or  perhaps  ten  days,  longer.  Did  I  not  hear  you 
say  that  you  would  be  leaving  New  York  next  week? 
Pray  tell  me  how  long  you  '11  be  away. 

I  will  miss  my  Saturday-night  to-morrow ;  and  I  would 
be  strongly  inclined  to  consider  this  a  very  cross-purpose 
indeed,  if  I  did  not  feel  myself  so  indebted  to  Purpose 
already. 

And  perhaps  it  is  well  enough  for  me  to  be  away  for  a 

week  or  two.     I  want  to  digest  Mr. and  Mr. . 

I  find  that  spiritually  we  are  cannibals,  all :  we  feed 
upon  each  other,  soul  assimilates  and  makes  tissue  of 
soul. 

I  have  n't  time  to  write  you. 

God  be  praised  that  you  exist,  —  is  a  frequent  ejacu 
lation  of 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK,  October  16,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER:  Just  returned  from  the  "Cen 
tury  "  breakfast  to  Lord  Houghton  (which  was  charm 
ing,  and  most  inspiriting  to  all  authors!),  I  find  your 
note.  I  go  out  of  town  in  an  hour,  and  must  reply 
in  haste. 

Your  song  is  delightful.  I  'm  glad  to  find  that  you 
are  taking  these  "  swallow- flights  "  —  they  have  their 
true  place,  and  through  them  the  poet  often  learns  a 
great  deal.  Forgive  me  two  technical  criticisms.  The 
end  of  verse  2d  — 

"  Say  yea,  say  yea  !  " 

is  too  monotonous  in  sound.  The  one  vowel  (and  not 
one  of  the  best  vowel-sounds)  repeated  four  times  is  too 

9 


130  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

much,  especially  as  "  dares  the  day  "  comes  two  lines 

before  it. 

"  Ah,  say  not  nay  ! " 

(for  instance)  gets  rid  of  two  of  the  sounds,  and  is  quite 
as  pleading,  though  less  eager.  Also  the  additional  foot 
in  the  penultimate  line  of  the  poem  violates  its  melody. 
Could  you  not  say : 

"  That  from  my  soul  as  leaf  from  stem  may  fly 
My  songs,  I  pray  !  " 

I  can't  see  that  anything  is  lost  by  this  change,  which 
preserves  the  metre.  The  conception  of  the  little  piece 
is  perfect.  Of  course,  you  will  not  accept  these  sugges 
tions  unless  they  seem  valid  to  your  own  mind. 

Meanwhile,  hearty  thanks  for  sending  me  the  MS.  ! 
I  shall  be  in  New  York  next  week,  but  shall  be  absent 
two  days  of  the  following  week,  and  after  that  only  here 
on  Saturdays  and  Sundays.  My  round  of  dreary  lectur 
ing  begins  again,  and  I  must  roll  a  heavy  stone  over  the 
fountain  of  my  Muse. 

Thank  Mr.  Peacock  for  his  kind  invitation.  I  would 
have  come,  had  it  been  possible;  but  there  was  the 
proof  of  two  articles  to  revise,  and  my  new  lecture  (on 
"  Literature  as  an  Art,"  to  be  delivered  next  Friday)  is 
not  yet  finished  !  Hoping  to  see  both  of  you  here  be 
fore  long,  and  with  the  heartiest  greetings  to  Peacock,  I 
remain 

Ever  faithfully  your  friend, 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

1425  WALNUT  ST.,  PHILADELPHIA,  PA., 
October  29,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR:  I  have  just  received  a  let 
ter  from  that  lovely  Charlotte  Cushman,  which  invites 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  131 

me  with  such  lavish  goodness  to  come  to  her  that  I  can 
not  at  all  resist;  and  so  I'm  going  there  (Boston: 
Parker  House)  for  a  few  days,  before  returning  South. 
I  will  stop  in  New  York  a  day  or  two  on  my  way  back  — 
probably  about  a  week  from  now  —  to  see  you.  Will 
you  be  there  ?  As  I  will  remain  in  Boston  about  a  week 
I  will  be  glad  to  avail  myself  of  your  kind  offer  of  letters 
to~Mr.  Longfellow  and  Mr.  Lowell.  They  will  reach  me 
if  sent  to  the  Parker  House,  where  Miss  Cushman  is 
staying,  and  where  I  will  stop. 

On  second  thought,  as  her  letter  contains  a  message 
to  Lord  Houghton  (who,  it  seems,  went  to  Newport  to 
see  her,  but  missed  her)  which  you  will  much  more 
likely  be  able  to  deliver  than  I,  I  '11  enclose  it  herein. 
Her  disease  renders  her  unable  to  sit  at  a  table  :  hence 
she  writes  in  pencil.  Pray  read  her  letter,  if  only  to 
see  what  a  fair  large  Soul  it  is. 

I  sent  you  a  paper  (  "  The  Graphic  "  of  2  yth)  which 
contains  a  very  pretty  compliment  to  me  in  the  shape  of 
a  poem  by  Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps,  based  on  a  quoted 
line  from  my  "  Symphony."  The  same  paper  contains 
an  extract  from  my  paper  on  "  St.  Augustine,"  which  un 
fortunately  the  scissors- wielder  clipped  off  just  as  the 

climax  was  reached.     The  takes  occasion  to  give 

me  some  pain,  anent  this  poor  St.  Augustine  article,  by 
first  making  a  statement  which  is  grossly  inaccurate,  and 
next  basing  on  it  a  criticism  which  would  be  unjust  even 
if  its  foundation  were  not  untrue,  and  finally  dismissing 
the  subject  with  a  comparison  of  my  merits  and  Mrs. 
's,  which  is  as  pure  a  piece  of  gratuitous  ungentle- 
manliness  as  a  vulgar  soul  could  well  devise.  Not  that 
I  care  in  the  least  for  the  judgment,  or  that  I  shall 
change  my  "  foible  "  —  foible  !  of  seeing  God  in  every- 


132  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

thing :  but  the  point  where  the  pain  comes  in  is  simply 
that  it  may  interfere  with  one's  already  very  short  allow 
ance  of  bread,  by  making  the  magazines  shy  of  giv 
ing  employment  to  one  who  fails  to  please  the  . 

What  a  diatribe  I  Ve  written  !  But  such  indignation  as 
you  detect  herein  is  wholly  impersonal,  and  entirely  due 
to  that  repugnance  with  which  one  sees  a  really  strong 
newspaper  turning  over  articles  to  be  "criticised"  by 
persons  who  do  not  even  understand  the  usages  of  gen 
tlemen.  How  differently  come  your  criticisms,  which  I 
always  receive  thankfully  whether  unfavorable  or  other 
wise  ! 

Mr.  Peacock  sends  messages  of  friendly  remembrance 
to  you. 

Pray  make  my  compliments   to    the   ladies   of  your 
house,  and  believe  me  always,  my  dear  Mr.  Taylor, 
Your  faithful  friend,  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  N.  Y.,  November  i,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  I  found  your  letter  late  on  Satur 
day,  on  my  return  from  a  trip  up  the  Hudson.  This 
morning  I  hasten  to  send  you  the  letters,  hoping  they 
will  reach  you  in  good  season.  I  also  return  Miss  Cush- 
man's  letter,  thinking  you  will  prefer  to  keep  it.  Give  her 
my  love,  which  she  has  always  had  since  I  knew  her. 

As  for  the  ,  be  calm  !  that  is  nothing,  and  will 

have  no  effect  whatever.  I  had  not  seen  the  article, 
but  found  it  at  the  Century,  and  also  read  the  whole 
of  your  "  St.  Augustine,"  which  is  poetical  in  parts,  and 
wholly  bright  and  readable.  When  you  consider  that  for 

eight  years  the has  snubbed  me  and  sneered  at  me 

in  the  most  vulgar  way,  and  "I  still  live,"  you  will  not 
allow  so  flippant  a  notice  to  trouble  you. 


Letters  between  Two  Poets 

I  should  like  to  write  much  more,  but  have  a  great 
deal  of  work  on  hand  and  many  distractions.  Be  sure 
and  stop  on  your  way  back.  I  shall  be  here  all  this 
week  and  next  Sunday,  but  not  next  week.  If  Whittier 
should  come  to  Boston,  go  and  see  him :  it  will  be 
enough  to  say  that  you  are  my  friend.  He  is  thoroughly 
noble,  and  you  will  like  him. 

I  breakfast  with  Lord  Houghton  to-morrow,  and  will 
give  him  Miss  Cushman's  message.  As  Manto  says  to 
Faust  (Part  II.),  "On!  Be  bold!" 

Ever  faithfully  yours,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

MACON,  GA.,  November  24,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  Poets  understand  every 
thing  :  I  doubt  not  you  well  know  a  certain  sort  of  hap 
piness  which  at  the  same  time  locks  up  expression  and 
enlarges  fancy,  and  you  will  therefore  easily  comprehend 
how  it  is  that  thirty  days  have  passed  without  any  message 
from  me  to  you,  although  there  has  been  no  one  of  them 
during  which  you  were  not  constantly  in  my  mind.  This 
happiness  of  which  I  speak  —  which  freezes  one's  pen 
and  tongue  while  it  melts  one's  heart  —  means  in  the 
present  instance  that  I  have  been  at  home  for  ten  days 
past,  joyfully  reunited  with  the  other  —  and  far  sweeter 
—  Moiety  of  me.  My  three  young  men  —  one  of  seven, 
one  of  five  and  one  of  two  years  —  keep  me  in  an  end 
less  labyrinth  of  surprises  and  delights :  nothing  could 
be  more  keen,  more  fresh,  more  breezy,  than  the  meet 
ing  together  of  their  little  immense  loves  with  the  juicy 
selfishness  and  honest  animalisms  of  the  dear  young 
cubs.  What  a  prodigious  Candor  they  practise  ! 
They're  as  little  ashamed  of  being  beasts  as  they  are 
proud  of  being  gods :  they  accept  themselves  at  the 


1 34  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

hands  of  their  Creator  with  perfect  unreserve  :  pug  nose 
or  Greek,  blue  eyes  or  gray,  beasthood  or  godhood  — 
it 's  all  one  to  them.  What 's  the  good  of  metaphysical 
moping  as  long  as  Papa  's  at  home  and  you  've  got  a 
Mama  to  kiss  and  a  new  ball  from  now  till  dinner  and 
then  apples  ! 

This  is  their  philosophy :  it  is  really  a  perfect  scheme 
of  life,  and  contains  all  the  essential  terms  of  religion, 
while  —  as  for  philosophy  —  it  is  perfectly  clear  upon 
points  which  have  remained  obscure  from  Plato  down 
to  George  Lewes. 

How  I  wish  my  lovely  two-year-old  boy  —  my  royal 
Hal  —  could  look  you  in  the  eyes  for  once,  and  put  his 
arms  deliberately  round  your  neck  and  give  you  one  of 
his  fervent  kisses  !  Fancy  that  your  big  Lars  was  also  a 
baby,  and  also  a  poet ;  and  you  '11  have  a  whiff  of  it. 

Your  letters  came  to  me  while  I  was  with  Miss  Cush- 
man,  and  were  the  means  of  procuring  for  me  two  de 
lightful  afternoons  with  Mr.  Lowell  and  Mr.  Longfellow. 
I  was  sorry  to  miss  Mr.  Aldrich.  I  wrote  him  a  little 
note,  to  find  out  when  he  would  be  in  town.  He  replied 
that  he  could  not  come  until  after  I  had  left  Boston,  but 
added  that  he  would  be  in  New  York  during  the  winter, 
"  when  perhaps  Mr.  Taylor  would  be  good  enough  —  he 
is  good  enough  for  anything  —  to  bring  us  together." 

I  'm  sure  you  '11  care  to  know  that  I  had  a  charming 
visit  to  Miss  Cushman,  and  that  each  day  was  crowded 
with  pleasant  things  which  she  and  her  numerous  friends 
had  prepared  for  me. 

I  leave  Macon  for  Baltimore  on  Friday  next.  My 
address  there  will  be  64  Centre  St.,  and  I  will  hope  to 
hear  from  you  very  soon  after  my  arrival.  I  resume  my 
old  place  as  first  flute  of  the  Peabody  Orchestra,  which 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  135 

lasts  until  March;  though  hoping  all  the  time  still  to 
find  some  opportunity  for  getting  my  longed-for  chair  of 
The  Physics  and  Metaphysics  of  Music  established  in 
some  college  or  other. 

My  pretty  Comrade  here  begs  that  she  may  be  allowed 
to  join  me  in  grateful  and  affectionate  messages  to  you, 
— for  she  knows  in  detail  all  your  thoughtful  kindliness 
in  my  behalf.  Pray  let  me  not  quite  drop  out  of  the 
recollection  of  Mrs.  Taylor  and  of  your  daughter. 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK,  December  13,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  I  have  been  so  much  away  lec 
turing,  and  always  find  so  much  work  waiting  for  me  on 
my  return  home  for  Sunday,  that  your  welcome  letter 
from  Macon  has  remained  unanswered.  Even  now,  I 
can  hardly  say  more  than  that  I  shall  be  in  Baltimore,  to 
lecture  before  the  Peabody  Institute,  on  the  2ist  and 
23d,  and  shall  certainly  see  you  then.  I  stop  at  the 
Carrolton.  I  think  the  name  of  the  Provost  of  the  P. 
Institute  is  Morison,  and  I  beg  you  will  use  my  name  with 
him  to  get  tickets,  in  case  you  desire  to  hear  the  lecture. 
But  there  will  probably  be  time  enough  for  that,  after  I 
reach  Baltimore.  Now  it  just  occurs  to  me  that  the 
best  way  will  be  to  join  me  at  the  hotel  and  go  with  me. 
We  can  then  have  a  glass  of  punch  together,  afterwards. 

I  have  no  news  to  send ;  for  the  lecturing  season  is 
one  of  intellectual  torpor  to  me,  in  all  other  respects.  I 
become  a  mere  talking-machine,  and  vegetate  between 
whiles. 

Pardon  this  haste  and  incoherence,  and  believe  me 
Ever  faithfully  your  friend, 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


136  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  N.  Y.,  December  28,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  I  write  in  a  hurry,  but  have  some 
thing  to  say.  General  Hawley,  President  of  the  U.  S. 
Centennial  Commission,  has  invited  me  to  write  a  ffymn 
for  the  grand  opening  ceremonies.  There  is  to  be  also 
an  original  Cantata,  the  text  of  which  was  to  be  asked 
of  Stedman,  but  he  is  gone  to  Panama,  and  neither 
Theo.  Thomas  nor  Dudley  Buck  (the  composer)  will  wait 
his  return.  General  Hawley  asked  me  to  name  a  poet 
not  of  New  England,  so  I  suggested  a  Southern  poet  for 
the  Cantata.  I  feel  quite  sure  you  will  be  the  choice. 

I  write  in  all  haste  to  say  —  you  must  accept,  if  it  is 
offered.  The  Cantata  should  not  be  more  than  from 
40  to  50  lines  long,  of  unity  of  conception,  yet  capable 
of  being  divided  easily  into  three  parts  —  an  opening 
chorus,  a  bass  solo,  and  a  finale,  either  general  or  alter 
nating  chorus.  The  measure  ought  to  be  irregular, 
yet  sufficiently  rhythmical.  My  additional  suggestion  is 
—  and  I  think  you  '11  p'ardon  it  —  to  make  the  lines 
simple  and  strong,  keep  down  the  play  of  fancy  (except 
where  it  may  give  room  for  a  fine  musical  phrase),  and 
aim  at  expressing  the  general  feeling  of  the  nation  rather 
than  individual  ideas  —  though  the  latter  might  be  much 
finer. 

I  have  just  had  a  visit  from  Theo.  Thomas  and  Mr. 
Buck,  and  we  talked  the  whole  matter  over.  Thomas 
remembers  you  well,  and  Mr.  Buck  says  it  would  be 
specially  agreeable  to  him  to  compose  for  the  words  of 
a  Southern  poet.  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  speaking 
for  you,  both  to  them  and  to  General  Hawley,  and  you 
must  not  fail  me. 

As  soon  as  you  accept,  write  a  line  to  Dudley  Buck, 
100  West  54th  St.,  N.  Y.,  saying  so. 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  137 

Now,  my  dear  Lanier,  I  am  sure  you  can  do  this 
worthily.  It 's  a  great  occasion,  —  not  especially  for 
poetry  as  an  art,  but  for  Poetry  to  assert  herself  as  a 
power.  I  must  close,  being  very  busy.  This  is  to 
prepare  you  a  little  and  set  your  thoughts  as  soon  as 
possible  in  the  direction  of  the  task. 

Ever  faithfully  yours,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

My  love  to  the  boy. 

66  CENTRE  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD.,  December  29,  1875. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  If  it  were  a  cantata  upon 
your  goodness  .  .  .  I  'm  willing  to  wager  I  could  write 
a  stirring  one  and  a  grateful  withal. 

Of  course  I  will  accept  —  when  't  is  offered.  I  only 
write  a  hasty  line  now  to  say  how  deeply  I  am  touched 
by  the  friendly  forethought  of  your  letter. 

Charley  joins  me  in  love  to  you ;  and  I  add  a  hearty 
wish  that  the  New  Year  may  be  to  you  a  friend  no  less 
loving  than  will  always  be  S.  L. 

64  CENTRE  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD.,  January  4,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  General  Hawley's  invitation 
,has  just  arrived  and  I  have  sent  my  acceptance.  I  will 
probably  see  Theodore  Thomas  here  on  Monday  next, 
and  will  try  to  arrange  a  meeting  with  Mr.  Buck  in 
New  York  soon. 

There  is  n't  the  least  use  in  my  trying  to  thank  you 
for  this  pleasant  surprise ;  but  I  do  wish  I  could  tell  you 
the  delight  with  which  I  find  my  name  associated  with 
yours  in  this  way. 

Are  we  at  liberty  to  mention  our  appointment  in  this 
behalf  to  our  friends?  I  only  ask,  remembering  that 


138  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

the  name   of  the   Centennial   poet   has   not  yet   been 
officially  announced,  —  at  least  so  far  as  I  know. 

Charley  sends  you  his  love.  I  write  in  much  haste, 
but  am  no  less  always 

Your  faithful  and  grateful  S.  L. 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  N.  Y.,  January  7,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  I  have  so  many  distractions  in 
these  days  that  I  really  forgot  (temporarily)  to  send  you 
my  volume,  and  am  glad  of  your  reminder.  I  '11  order 
it  done  this  morning.  As  the  book  goes  by  mail,  I  can't 
write  your  name  in  it,  but  I  '11  do  that  afterwards. 

I  think  it  best  to  let  the  Centennial  Commission  make 
the  announcements  of  orators  and  poets.  I  've  mentioned 
my  share,  confidentially,  to  one  or  two  friends,  but  shall 
not  let  it  get  into  print.  I  am  very  glad  you  accept  so 
heartily  ;  I  know  that  General  Hawley  is  quite  pleased  to 
have  you  do  the  work.  I  should  say  eight  days  would 
be  ample  time  :  you  must  not  exceed  fifty  lines ;  my 
Hymn  will  be  20  to  24,  only.  "  Occasional "  poetical 
work  should  always  be  brief,  appropriate  in  idea,  and 
technically  good.  One  dare  not  be  imaginative  or  par 
ticularly  original. 

I  leave  here  on  the  i3th  for  a  lecturing  tour  through 
the  West  which  will  last  five  weeks.  It 's  the  hardest 
part  of  my  winter  work.  But  any  letter  sent  here  will 
be  forwarded  to  me. 

Don't  overvalue  my  friendly  good-will,  nor  ever  let  it 
impose  the  least  sense  of  obligation  upon  you.  I  am 
very  glad  when  I  can  be  some  encouragement  to  a  man 
in  whom  I  have  faith.  Give  my  love  to  Charley,  and 
believe  me  always  faithfully 

Your  friend,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  139 

66  CENTRE  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD.,  January  9,  1876. 

DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR:  Yesterday  I  impressed  myself 
with  these  following  principles  : 

i  st.  That  the  Cantata  was  to  be  sung  not  only  at  our 
Centennial,  but  at  a  festival  where  the  world  was  our 
invited  guest,  to  be  welcomed; 

2d.  That  spread-eagleism  would  be  ungraceful  and 
unworthy ; 

3d.   That  something  ought  to  be  said  in  the  poem ; 

4th.  That  it  afforded  room  to  give  the  musical  com 
poser  an  opportunity  to  employ  the  prodigious  tone- 
contrasts  of  sober  reflection,  the  sea,  lamentation,  a 
battle,  warning,  and  magnificent  yet  sober  and  manly 
triumph  and  welcome ; 

5th.  That  it  ought  to  be,  not  rhymed  philosophy,  but 
a  genuine  song,  and  lyric  outburst. 

Having  put  this  offering  on  my  altar,  I  waited ;  and 
this  morning  I  saw  that  the  Fire  had  come  down  from  a 
gracious  Heaven,  and  that  it  was  burning. 

Here  is  the  result.  Pray  read  it,  and  send  me  word 
immediately  —  and  with  perfect  candor  —  as  to  such 
parts  of  it  as  strike  you  unfavorably. 

I  wish  I  could  hear  you  intone  it,  ore  rotunda  ! 

Your  friend  S.  L. 

66  CENTRE  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD.,  January  12,  1876. 
DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  Being  cool  next  day,  I  found 
some  flaws  in  my  poem;  and  having  made  out  a 
working  copy  of  it  (by  reading  the  analysis  of  move 
ments  written  in  the  margin,  you  will  see  what  immense 
resources  it  offers  to  the  musician),  I  send  it  to  you. 
Pray  let  me  know  freely  if  the  whole  is  worthy. 

Always  your  friend  S.  L. 

I  have  not  yet  sent  it  to  Mr.  Buck. 


140  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  N.  Y.,  January  12,  1876. 
MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  Just  in  time  !  —  for  I  must  leave 
to-morrow.  Your  principles  of  conception  and  con 
struction  are  right,  and  the  execution,  as  a  whole,  is 
successful.  My  task  will  be  to  carefully  examine  details. 
I  have  numbered  the  lines,  to  avoid  any  mistakes. 

2.  See  if  you  can't   find   a  better  word  instead  of 
"  larger." 

3.  "  Staired  "  will  not  do,  especially  after  "hundred- 
terraced"     As   you    are    looking    down,    why   not    say 
"  climbing  "  —  but  never  "  staired." 

7  and  8.  I  think  you  can  get  two  better  lines : 
"  where  "  has  not  a  good  effect,  at  the  end  of  the  line, 
and  I  don't  quite  like  "  rage  in  air."  How  would  some 
thing  like  this  answer? 

Out  of  yonder  misty  deep 
Where  old  toil  and  b™tfegle  sleep. 

10.    Is  "balking"  the  best  adjective? 

1 6.  There  's  something  hard  and  awkward  about  this 
line. 

17,  1 8,  19.    The  repetition  seems  to  weaken  the  effect. 
I  would  suggest  a  change  like  this,  in  the  stanza : 

Unto  every  scattered  band 

At  the  portals  of  the  land, 

Hunger  cries  :  "  Ye  shall  not  stay  !  " 

Winter  cries :  "  Ye  must  away !  " 

Vengeance  cries  :  "  Beware  my  day !  " 

From  the  shore  and  from  the  sea, 

"  No  !     It  shall  not  be  ! " 

22  to  31,  inclusive.  I  like  these  ten  lines  least  of 
all.  "Tongued"  is  not  agreeable,  and  "prescribed" 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  141 

and  "  conscrib£d  "  make  quite  an  unpleasant  impres 
sion,  as  of  artifice.  Line  25  is  not  quite  intelligible. 
The  stanza  would  be  much  better,  if  lines  24,  25,  26, 
and  27  were  wholly  omitted.  But  I  should  much  prefer 
a  smoother  stanza,  hinting  at  toil,  patience,  growth,  and 
the  blending  of  different  Old-World  elements.  The 
prohibitory  strain  is  carried  too  far :  it  reaches  a  climax 
in  the  preceding  stanza,  and  you  want  something  else 
interposed  between  that  and  the  new  refrain  :  "  It  was  : 
it  is,"  etc.  Couldn't  you  make  a  stanza  after  this 
fashion  ? 

Courage  stood  and  faltered  not 

Patience    ......•• 

Toil 

Cavalier  and  Puritan 

Holland 

Huguenot  ....... 

Wrought,  joined  hands,  welded  separate  links  into  one 

chain, 
Etc.  etc. 

Then  the  new  movement,  it  seems  to  me,  would  come 
in  with  fine  effect. 

36,  37,  38.  Are  these  lines  really  necessary?  They 
may  be  in  a  musical  sense.  "  Now  still  thee  "  is  not  a 
good  expression,  and  there  is  a  little  too  evident  purpose 
in  "underworld"  and  "  thunderworld." 

50.  "Lover"  is  not  true,  and  is  rather  weak  here. 
Why  not  say, 

"  The  world's  new  Host  salutes  the  welcome  world  "  ? 

There  !  I  have  found  all  the  fault  I  can.  If  you  will 
only  change  the  lines  22  to  31,  I  think  it  will  answer 
admirably,  and  be  most  welcome.  The  plan  is  entirely 


142  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

poetical,  and  ought  to  be  made  very  effective  in  music. 
I  want,  for  your  sake,  to  have  the  Cantata  universally 
liked,  but  you  will  be  sharply  set  upon  if  you  use  the  words 
"staired,"  "prescribed"  and  "conscribed,"  and  the 
line  "clothes  for  men,"  etc.  (25).  Why  not  yield  that 
much,  for  this  once?  I  also  think  that  the  suggestion 
I  make  for  the  change  in  the  stanza  will  make  the 
whole  piece  more  popular.  There  is  both  originality 
and  lyric  fire  everywhere  else. 

I  write  hastily,  having  much  to  do,  and  you  '11  want 
the  MS.  at  once.  May  the  music  be  worthy  ! 

Always  faithfully  yours,  B.  T. 

66  CENTRE  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 
January  13,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  I  agree  with  your  main  points 
of  objection ;  and  I  will  change  the  stanza  about  which 
you  are  most  apprehensive.  I  'm  particularly  charmed 
to  find  that  you  don't  think  the  poem  too  original. 
I  tried  hard  to  think  —  in  a  kind  of  average  and 
miscellaneousness. 

I  read  and  explained  it  to  Thomas  last  night;  he 
said,  "  I  think  Mr.  Buck  ought  to  be  delighted '  with 
the  musical  conception  of  the  poem  :  "  adding  that  of 
course  he  would  not  dare  to  pronounce  upon  the  poetic 
merits  of  it  beyond  saying  that  the  ideas  seemed  to  him 
very  beautiful. 

I  sent  vou  the  copy  showing  the  movements,  before 
I  had  received  your  letter.  I  '11  send  a  final  copy  when 
I  've  finished  it.  You  see  I  had  to  compose  for  the 
musician  as  well  as  the  country,  and  had  to  cast  the 
poem  into  such  a  form  as  would  at  once  show  well  in 
music  (where  contrast  of  movement  between  each  adja- 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  143 

cent  part,  in  broad  bands  of  color,  was,  from  the  nature 
of  the  art,  a  controlling  consideration)  and  in  poetry. 
I  wished  indeed  to  make  it  as  large  and  as  simple 
as  a  Symphony  of  Beethoven's.  If  it  does  not  come 
up  to  this,  I  Ve  failed ;  but  your  commendation  con 
firms  my  own  cool  feeling  about  it,  which  is  that  it 
will  do. 

I  thank  —  but  I  won't,  either,  for  it 's  simply  ab 
surd.  Your  criticisms  on  the  piece  are  invaluable  to 
me ;  for  though  I  don't  agree  with  all  of  them, 
the  sharp  re-examinations  which  they  compel  me  to 
make  develop  many  things  which  otherwise  would  not 
be  developed. 

Charley  sends  love,  and  mine  is  always  sent  before. 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 

January  13,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  I  have  barely  time  (while  my 
wife  packs  my  valise)  to  say  that  the  change  you  have 
made  in  the  next  to  the  last  movement  is  altogether 
better.  Now  please  rewrite  the  stanza  beginning 
"Then  the  smiting-tongued  swords."  Something  ex 
pressing  patience,  toil,  and  growth  is  required  between 
the  menace  of  failure  and  the  triumphant  success. 
The  transition  is  too  sudden.  And  the  stanza,  as  it  at 
present  stands,  mars  the  beauty  of  the  Cantata.  As  I 
said  before,  "  staired  years  "  must  also  be  changed.  If 
you  doubt  my  judgment  in  the  matter,  consult  Peacock 
also.  I  suppose  I  need  n't  -return  this  second  MS. 
Good-bye ! 

Ever  yours,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


144  Letters  of  Sidney  Lamer 

66  CENTRE  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD.,  January  15,  1876. 

DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  You  are  so  far  responsible  for 
me  as  the  writer  of  this  Cantata  that  I  don't  intend  to 
feel  satisfaction  until  I  am  sure  that  you  think  the  poem 
absolutely  worthy  of  the  country  and  of  poetry  as  an 
art.  Therefore,  having  after  two  days'  cooling  found 
many  faults  with  it  myself,  I  have  quite  rewritten  it,  and 
send  it  to  you,  hoping  that  you  will  let  me  know  if  it 
seems  to  you  entirely  large,  simple,  and  melodious.  For 
it  is  to  this  that  I  have  directed  all  my  efforts  in  it : 
I  have  had  constantly  in  my  mind  those  immortal 
melodies  of  Beethoven  in  which,  with  little  more  than 
the  chords  of  the  tonic  and  dominant,  he  has  presented 
such  firm,  majestic,  and  at  the  same  time  artless  ideas. 
Of  course,  with  the  general  world  —  especially  in  a 
Swinburnian  time  —  I  do  not  expect  to  obtain  the  least 
recognition  of  the  combination  of  child-like  candors 
and  colossal  philosophies  which  I  have  endeavored  here 
to  put  in  words ;  but  I  do  wish  to  know  whether  to  you 
the  poem  as  you  now  see  it  comes  near  this  ideal.  I 
don't  believe  there  is  the  least  necessity  for  me  to  beg 
you  not  to  have  the  least  regard  for  me  in  pronouncing 
upon  anything  that  you  still  find  wanting.  I  desire  the 
poem  to  be  perfect. 

I  put  the  Farewell,  dear  England  into  the  Mayflower 
strophe  because  Mather  relates  that  the  people  in  the 
vessel  actually  stood  up  and  cried  out  these  words  as 
they  were  departing.  I  also  entirely  rewrote  the  stanza 
you  did  not  like ;  and  then  inserted  a  whisper  chorus 
(of  the  Huguenot  and  furitan,  in  dactyllic  measure) 
to  prepare  by  its  straining  pianissimo  for  the  outburst 
of  jubilation. 

Always  your  friend  S.  L. 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  145 

BAY  CITY,  MICH.,  January  20,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  Thank  you  !  The  revised  Can 
tata,  which  I  have  just  received  through  my  wife's 
letter,  is  in  every  way  better  than  the  first  draught.  It 
is  what  it  purports  to  be  —  a  Cantata,  not  an  Ode  — 
with  the  musical  character  inherent  in  its  structure  and 
not  to  be  separated.  If  the  composer  seconds  you 
properly,  the  effect  cannot  be  otherwise  than  grand  and 
satisfactory.  I  have  only  a  few  slight  technical  faults  to 
find.  "  A  weltering  flow  "  —  a  sluggish,  aimless  tide  — 
hardly  corresponds  with  "  ridged  with  acts,"  which  indi 
cates  billows  and  a  direction  of  the  tide.  Now,  your  idea 
is  clear  to  me,  and  I  think  it  might  be  expressed  in  a 
more  logical  figure. 

I  don't  like,  either,  the  molossus  "  Grown  foul  Bads," 
nor  the  use  of  "Bads"  as  a  noun.  The  latter  is  not 
incorrect,  but  it  is  somehow  disagreeable.  "  Evils  grown 
in  alien  air  "  would  read  better  to  me. 

The  Huguenot  and  Puritan  stanza  is  a  great  improve 
ment. 

The  word  "  stertorous  "  seems  to  me  out  of  tone  — 
it  sounds  more  medical  than  poetical,  and  the  noun 
death  makes  it  worse.  In  the  next  line  "  brother- 
wars  new-dark  "  has  a  heavy  effect,  and  will  be  very 
hard  to  sing.  Yet  the  meaning  is  just  what  is  wanted. 

Thence  to  the  end  all  is  excellent. 

I  have  forgotten  one  other :  "  noisy  lords,  Tongued 
with  lithe  and  poisoned  swords,"  is  much  too  forced  an 
image.  You  seem  to  be  fond  of  the  word  "  tongued," 
but  in  this  instance  it  may  be  best  to  use  a  little  self- 
denial.  It  is  an  expression  which  will  give  the  spiteful 
critics  a  chance,  —  if  it  were  good  I  should  say,  "  Damn 


146  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

the  spiteful  critics  !  "  but  I  don't  think  it  good.     Turn 
the  matter  over  once  more  in  your  mind. 

There  !  Is  that  fault  enough  to  find  ?  I  Ve  examined 
every  line  severely,  and  find  nothing  more.  You  have 
already  added  fifty  per  cent  to  the  merit  of  the  work. 
I  am  too  busy  to  write  more:  pardon  this  abrupt 
breaking-off ! 

Ever  most  faithfully,         BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

66  CENTRE  STREET,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 
February  27,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  Pray  tell  me  how  you  are. 
I  wished  for  you  all  day  yesterday  with  special  fervor, 
thinking  how  the  bland  and  sunny  air  that  bathed  us  all 
here  would  have  soothed  your  malady.  I  was  grieved  to 
miss  your  call,  and  would  have  run  round  to  inquire 
about  you  but  was  entirely  occupied  by  business  until 
six,  when  I  quitted  New  York  for  Philadelphia. 

It  has  been  uphill  work  with  me  to  struggle  against 
the  sense  of  loss  which  the  departure  of  my  beloved 
Charlotte  Cushman  leaves  with  me.  She  and  you  were 
the  only  friends  among  the  Artists  I  have  ever  had; 
and  since  she  is  gone  I  am  as  one  who  has  lost  the 
half  of  his  possessions.  The  passion  to  which  my 
devotion  to  her  had  grown  takes  it  hard  when  sight 
and  hearing  are  both  become  forevermore  impossible. 
To-day,  though  keenly  desirous  to  rest  after  a  week 
of  great  strain,  this  little  poem  teased  me  till  it  was 
on  paper.  I  hope  you  will  think  it  not  wholly  unworthy. 
As  I  read  it  over  now  a  disagreeable  fancy  comes  that 
the  last  two  lines  of  it  are  somewhat  like  something  of 
somebody  else,  and  'these  vague  "  somes  "  are  intoler 
able.  Pray  tell  me  if  this  is  so. 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  147 

Make  my  compliments  to  Mrs.  Taylor.  I  hope  Miss 
Taylor  is  quite  recovered. 

Charley  joins  me  in  love  to  you ;  and  I  am  always 

Your  friend  S.  L. 

142  EAST  iSTH  ST.,  NEW  YORK,  March  4,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  I  did  n't  answer  you  sooner,  be 
cause  I  wanted  to  send  you  my  Hymn  —  to  read  and 
ponder  over  —  and  it  was  not  quite  ready.  Here  it  is, 
now,  and  I  ask  you  to  be  as  frank  with  me  about  it  as 
I  am  wont  to  be  with  you.  If  I  take  offence,  don't 
believe  me  again  ! 

I  have  been  worse  since  you  left,  but  am  now  about 
as  usual.  I  lecture  in  Philadelphia  on  Monday,  and 
hope  to  see  Peacock,  if  but  for  a  moment.  I  can 
make  no  stay  there,  but  must  hurry  back,  next  morning. 

Your  poem  is  strong  and  full  of  feeling,  with  which 
the  occasional  roughness  entirely  harmonizes.  The  idea 
is  a  little  similar  to  a  poem  of  mine,  "The  Mystery," 
but  is  very  differently  expressed.  I  notice  no  resem 
blance  to  anything  in  the  last  lines.  I  have  accumu 
lated  work  during  my  enforced  idleness,  and  must  be  brief 
to-day.  All  three  of  us  send  greetings.  Love  to  Charley  ! 
Ever  faithfully  yours, 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

66  CENTRE  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 
March  n,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  I  've  only  just  crawled  out 
of  a  sick-bed  where  I  have  been  spending  one  of  the 
most  unsatisfactory  weeks  of  my  existence,  —  a  week 
whose  place  in  the  General  Plan  of  Good  I  find  as 
much  difficulty  in  justifying  as  Croton-bugs,  or  children 
born  idiots,  or  the  sausage-grinding  school  of  poetry. 


148  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

I  have  particularly  desired  to  write  you  about  The 
Hymn.  Of  course  the  value  of  a  friend's  criticism  in 
this  kind  is  simply  that  when  one  has  to  write  in  a 
hurry,  the  friend  is  in  the  nature  of  one's  own  Con 
science  of  Beauty  (as  you  have  beautifully  called  your 
wife)  as  that  conscience  will  be  after  the  coolness  of  time 
has  come.  The  friend  is  a  mere  anticipation  of  time,  — 
one's-self-after-a-while.  Purely  upon  this  theory  I  ac 
quire  boldness  enough  to  say  what  follows,  ist.  gen 
erally.  Inasmuch  as  the  opening  verse  presents  a  noble 
Tema,  or  motive,  of  triple  design  in  the  ideas  of 

f  Peace 
The  God  of  -J  Toil 

(.  &  Beauty 

would  it  not  be  best  to  carry  on  this  motive  entirely 
through  the  poem,  making  (say)  the  II.  verse  converge 
upon  the  idea  of  Peace,  the  III.  upon  Toil,  IV.  upon 
Beauty  (or  Art) ,  and  (if  you  choose)  V.  re-gathering  the 
whole  by  means  of  some  common  tone,  —  the  whole  thus 
gaining  perfect  unity  of  impression?  In  looking  down 
the  poem  with  this  view,  one  easily  sees  that  with  a  very 
small  change  of  phraseology  it  can  be  perfectly  carried 
out.  In  the  III.  verse  you  have  indeed  returned  to  the 
original  motive  in  a  very  beautiful  manner  :  — the  oak  of 
toil,  the  rose  of  art,  etc.  The  II.  verse  ought  on  three 
accounts  clearly  to  be  stricken  out :  ( i )  it  is  a  departure 
from  the  whole  plan  of  the  poem;  (2)  it  is  explanatory 
of  what  all  the  parties  to  the  hymn  thoroughly  under 
stand  already  to  be  the  situation;  (3)  it  is  below  the 
plane  of  the  other  conceptions.  Conceding  these  views 
for  a  moment  (and  I  think  there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  your  cool  judgment  after  a  while  will  estimate  the 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  149 

poem  precisely  according  to  the  success  with  which  it 
carries  out  the  general  scheme  indicated),  the  following 
will  be  an  outline  of  the  poem  as  it  will  finally  appear : 

I. 

(Just  as  you  have  it;  or  with  any  transposition  of 
the  lines  that  may  seem  desirable  to  facilitate  the  new 
arrangement.) 

II. 

(For  this  you  can  take  your  number  IV.  and  with  a 
slight  change  of  idea  make  the  whole  refer  to  Peace,  as 
for  example  a  general  supplication  that,  although  our 
eras  are  but  as  dust,  yet  dust  may  become  fruitful,  and 
Peace  may  be  vouchsafed  as  the  climate  favorable,  etc.5 

etc.) 

III. 

(This  is  nearly  ready  in  the  number  III.  of  the  poem, 
which  closes  with  the  lovely  reference  to  the  oak  of 
Toil  and  the  rose  of  Beauty  (or  Art).  The  opposition 
of  these  two  is  so  fine  that  it  suffices  to  authorize  the 
consolidated  treatment  of  the  ideas  of  Toil  and  Beauty 
in  one  and  the  same  verse.) 

IV. 

(For  this  your  number  V.  can  easily  be  made  to  serve 
by  directing  its  general  tone  upon  the  three  prominent 
ideas  already  treated,  having  reference  to  the  exchang 
ing  of  each  with  each,  and  the  relation  of  each  to  the 
God  of  the  three,  thus  making  a  perfect  return  to  the  I. 
and  ending  as  it  were  upon  the  tonic.  This  would 
make  the  poem  perfect  in  four  stanzas :  and  it  can  all 
be  done  without  altering  the  structure  of  the  sentences 
at  all,  and  with  only  changing  here  and  there  a  noun,  a 


1 50  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

verb,  or  an  adjective,  so  as  to  make  the  sense  point 
always  towards  the  thematic  ideas. 

2nd.  If,  however,  this  does  not  happen  to  meet  your 
fancy,  and  you  decide  to  retain  the  poem  as  it  is,  there 
are  one  or  two  minor  matters  to  which  your  attention 
should  be  called. 

i st.  I  am  clear  that  the  II.  should  either  disappear 
entirely  or  be  replaced,  for  the  reasons  hereinbefore 
stated. 

2d.  In  III.  the  sounds  of  "  thy  guidance  "  (y  and  long 
*'),  and  of  "made  failure"  (two  long  #'s),  seem  bad, 
particularly  as  they  come  so  close  to  each  other. 

3d.  In  IV.  the  idea  in  the  two  lines  which  come  after 
the  first  two  should  be  a  more  closely  logical  sequitur 
upon  them. 

4th.  The  fourth  line  of  V.  (I  mean  "  thyself  in  him  " 
only :  the  rest  of  the  line  is  perfect)  can  be  justified  in 
one's  thought,  but  it  compels  one  to  think  hard  in  order 
to  do  that,  —  and  this  is  a  disadvantage.  Can  you  not 
make  it  a  little  more  transparent  ?  Again,  the  last  two 
lines  might  so  easily  be  made  to  reaffirm  and  point  the 
first  stanza  as  well  as  the  whole  poem :  e.g., 


All  conquering  Peace  thy  gift  divine, 
shadowing  ' 


All  Toil,  all  Beauty  J 


meeting 
imaging 
based  on 


-  Thine ! 


I  think  further,  in  reference  to  these  last  two  lines,  that 
it  would  be  well  to  give  them  either  a  stronger  hold  by 
a  verb  of  some  sort,  or  some  turn  more  precisely  parallel 
with  the  rest  of  the  verse.  The  first  two  couplets  com 
mence  with  "  Let  each  with  each,"  and  "  Let  each  in 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  151 

each,"  which  is  fine ;  it  is  somewhat  weakening  the 
force  of  these  to  close  with  a  grammatically  indepen 
dent  couplet  which  has  no  verb  at  all. 

Of  course  you  understand  that  I  like  the  poem  (except 
the  II.  verse)  ;  all  the  ideas  are  noble,  and  there  is  a 
simple  grandeur  in  the  expressions  which  is  fine.  All 
my  suggestions  are  made  simply  with  a  view  to  concen 
trate  the  impression.  The  shot  are  all  good  :  let  them 
not  scatter,  but  strike  like  one  bullet. 

Pray  let  me  see  the  poem  again,  as  soon  as  you  put  it 
in  final  form. 

Charley  sends  love.  I  am  rejoiced  to  know  that  you 
are  quite  recovered  :  bronchitis  always  scares  me.  Let 
your  two  ladies  know  that  they  are  held  in  good  remem 
brance  ;  and  believe  me  always 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  N.  Y.,  St.  Patrick's  Day,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  Thanks  for  your  long  and  inter 
esting  comment.  What  you  say  of  verse  II.  is  very 
nearly  my  own  impression;  but  I  made  it  because  the 
Centennial  Board  requested  mention  of  the  occasion. 
It  can  easily  be  omitted.  But  I  don't  entirely  agree 
with  you  in  regard  to  a  rigid  architectural  structure  for 
the  hymn  :  a  strict  appropriation  of  three  stanzas  to  the 
three  manifestations  of  the  Deity,  with  a  union  of  all  at 
the  beginning  and  end,  would  give  a  too  conscious  air 
of  design.  Here,  again,  is  an  instance  where  you  cannot 
apply  the  laws  of  Music  to  Poetry.  The  hymn  is  to  be 
sung  by  many,  not  divided  into  parts,  and  its  fitness 
depends  on  the  whole  expression  much  more  than  upon 
a  finished  artistic  form. 

However,  my  part  has  been  changed  within  two  days, 


152  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

and  the  Hymn  will  not  be  sung  at  all.  I  have  been 
asked  to  write  the  Ode  for  the  grand  national  celebra 
tion  of  the  4th  of  July,  and  have  accepted.  Bryant, 
Longfellow,  and  Lowell  declined,  and  Whittier  and 
Holmes  urged  my  appointment.  I  dare  not  decline; 
yet  I  feel  the  weight  of  the  task,  and  shall  both  work 
and  pray  ardently  for  success.  Of  course,  I  have  with 
drawn  the  Hymn,  as  it  would  be  manifestly  improper  for 
me  to  do  both.  Some  one  else  will  be  appointed  imme 
diately.  Please  don't  mention  the  matter  for  four  or 
five  days  yet,  by  which  time  it  will  be  officially  an 
nounced.  I  shall  miss  your  poetic  companionship,  for 
which  the  oration  will  not  compensate  me ;  but  you  will 
readily  see  that  I  cannot  do  otherwise. 

I  am  hurried  this  morning,  and  also  have  a  headache, 
from  bumping  against  the  edge  of  a  suddenly  opened 
door;  so  you'll  pardon  my  brevity.  I'll  try  to  write 
again  in  a  few  days. 

Ever  faithfully  yours,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

66  CENTRE  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD.,  March  20,  1876. 

Bravissimo,  dear  Mr.  Taylor;  why,  this  is  the  very 
Fitness  of  Things  :  the  appointment  matches,  as  a  rhyme 
matches  a  rhyme  :  nothing  can  be  more  evident  than 
that  God  has  temporarily  taken  the  direction  of  matters 
into  His  own  hands.  I  think  with  all  honesty,  and 
apart  from  friendly  preference,  that  you  will  do  the 
Ode  far  better  than  either  of  the  three  other  gentlemen 
could ;  and  I  send  you  my  congratulations  and  fair 
wishes  with  a  certain  sense  of  indignant  triumph  in  the 
coming-to-pass  of  what  ought  to  have  been. 

I  see,  from  what  you  say  in  reply  to  my  letter  on  the 
Hymn,  that  my  musical  associations  have  put  me  under 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  153 

a  certain  general  suspicion  with  you,  of  a  propensity  to 
impart  the  principles  of  musical  construction  into  poetry. 
But  this  was  a  principle  far  larger  than  any  peculiar  to 
music  or  to  any  one  art.  I  am  so  much  interested  in  it 
that  I  am  going  to  beg  you  to  let  me  plead  the  case 
with  you  a  moment. 

Permit  me  first  to  say  that  I  came  at  it,  not  by  any 
reasoning  prepense,  but  by  examination,  afterwards,  of 
wholly  unconscious  procedure.  It  revealed  itself  clearly 
to  me  in  thinking  about  a  little  poem  I  wrote  a  few  days 
ago.  Perhaps  I  can  best  illustrate  it  by  first  quoting  the 
poem,  which  is  a  pendant  to  a  little  song  you  have 
already  seen,  being  No.  II.  of  "  Rose- Morals  ": 

Soul,  get  thoe  to  the  heart 

Of  yonder  tube-rose,  hide  thee  there, 
There  breathe  the  meditations  of  thine  Art 
Suffused  with  prayer. 

Of  spirit  grave,  yet  light, 

How  fervent  fragrances  uprise 
Pure-born  from  these  most  rich  and  yet  most  white 
Virginities  ! 

Mulched  with  unsavory  death, 

Grow,  Soul,  unto  such  white  estate 
That  art  and  virginal  prayer  shall  be  thy  breath, 
Thy  work,  thy  fate. 

Now  it  seems  to  me  —  as  a  mere  extended  formula 
tion  of  the  thoroughly  unconscious  action  of  the  mind  in 
this  poem  —  that  every  poem,  from  a  sonnet  to  Macbeth, 
has  substantially  these  elements,  —  (i)  a  Hero,  (2)  a 
Plot,  and  (3)  a  Crisis ;  and  that  its  perfection  as  a  work 
of  art  will  consist  in  the  simplicity  and  the  completeness 
with  which  the  first  is  involved  in  the  second  and  illus- 


154  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

trated  in  the  third.  In  the  case  of  a  short  poem  the 
Hero  is  the  central  Idea,  whatever  that  may  be ;  the  plot 
is  whatever  is  said  about  that  idea,  its  details  all  con 
verging,  both  in  tone  and  in  general  direction,  there 
upon  :  and  the  crisis  is  the  unity  of  impression  sealed  or 
confirmed  or  climaxed  by  the  last  connected  sentence, 
or  sentiment,  or  verse,  of  the  poem.  Of  course  I  mean 
that  this  is  the  most  general  expression  of  the  artistic 
plan  of  a  poem  :  it  is  the  system  of  verses,  which  may 
be  infinitely  varied,  but  to  which  all  variations  may  be 
finally  referred.  I  do  not  think  that  there  is,  as  you 
feared,  any  necessary  reason  why  a  poem  so  constructed 
should  present  "  a  too-conscious  air  of  design ;  "  that  is 
a  matter  which  will  depend  solely  upon  the  genuineness 
of  the  inspiration  and  the  consummate  command  of  his 
resources  by  the  artist. 

Is  not  this  framework  essentially  that  of  every  work  of 
any  art?  Does  not  every  painting,  every  statue,  every 
architectural  design  owe  whatever  it  has  of  artistic  per 
fection  to  the  nearness  with  which  it  may  approach  the 
fundamental  scheme  of  a  Ruling  Idea  (or  Hero),  a  Plot 
(or  involution  of  the  Ruling  Idea  in  complexities  re 
lated  to  or  clustering  about  it) ,  and  a  Denouement  or 
Impression-as-a- whole  ? 

1 1  don't  mean  this  for  a  theory;  I  hate  theories;)! 
intend  it  only  to  be  a  convenient  synthesis  of  a  great 
number  of  small  facts ;  and  therefore  I  don't  stickle  at 
all  for  calling  the  elements  of  a  work  of  art  "  Heroes," 
or  "  Parts,"  or  "  Crises,"  and  the  like,  —  only  using  those 
terms  as  the  shortest  way  of  expressing  my  meaning. 

Anyway,  fair  fall  the  Ode.  I  hope  that  God  will  let 
you  into  Heaven,  with  no  limitations  as  to  walking  on  the 
grass  or  picking  the  flowers,  till  you  Ve  got  all  you  want. 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  155 

Mr.  Buck  has  sent  me  a  copy  of  the  piano  score  of 
the  Cantata,  but  I  have  not  yet  had  time  to  examine  it 
thoroughly.  Anything  will  go  well,  though,  with  a  large 
chorus  to  sing  it  and  Thomas'  orchestra  to  play  it.  ... 

If  it  will  not  trouble  you  I  will  be  glad  if  you  '11  send 
me  whatever  announcement  of  your  appointment  shall 
be  made. 

Charley  joins  me  in  fair  remembrances  to  you  and  the 
ladies  of  your  house. 

Write  me  soon,  as  to  your  always  desirous 

S.  L. 

N.  Y.,  March  23,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  Thanks  for  your  long  letter,  which 
requires  a  more  careful  reply  than  I  can  give  this  morn 
ing.  I  '11  write  more  at  length  on  Sunday. 

The  announcement  of  my  Ode  was  made  yesterday, 
and  I  enclose  you  what  Bryant  says  about  it.  I  '11  add 
(in  confidence,  as  yet)  that  Whittier  will  probably  write 
the  Hymn  in  my  stead.  I  had  a  letter  from  him  this 
morning,  and  he  does  n't  decline,  at  least. 

I  am  just  now  a  good  deal  busier  than  usual,  for  my 
"  Tribune  "  work  takes  more  time  at  first,  having  been 
out  of  harness  so  long.  Then  there  have  been  a  great 
many  delayed  (almost  protested}  social  debts  to  be  paid  ; 
which  are  more  or  less  fatiguing,  however  pleasant. 
Pray  be  charitable  to  my  enforced  brevity  this  morning  ! 
Ever  yours,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

66  CENTRE  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD.,  March  24,  1876. 
DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :    Don't  trouble  to  write  me  any 
elaborate  reply.    I  only  send  you  this  continuation  of  my 
thought  about  the  centralization  of  ideas  in  poems  be 
cause  I  have  been  studying  your  work  within  the  last  two 


156  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

or  three  months,  and  have  become  clearly  satisfied  that 
that  is  the  direction  in  which  you  should  grow.  You 
tend  from  it  by  reason  of  the  very  stress  and  crowding 
of  the  multitudinous  good  things  which  you  give  to  the 
world.  I  find  poems  of  yours  in  which  every  sentiment, 
every  thought,  every  line  —  as  sentiment,  thought  or 
line  —  is  exquisite,  and  yet  which  do  not  give  a  full  white 
light  as  poems  for  want  of  a  proper  convergence  of  the 
components  upon  a  single  point.  Sometime  we  will 
talk  of  this  :  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  in  my  hasty  letters 
—  for  I  am  worked  almost  to  the  annihilation  of  sleep 
and  of  meals  —  I  have  given  anything  like  a  clear  idea 
of  what  I  mean. 

But  this  do  write  me :  what  do  you  mean  by  your 
"  Tribune  work "  ?  Are  you  officially  connected  with 
the  paper;  and  how? 

Interrogatory  2nd  :  please  state  why  Longfellow,  Bry 
ant,  and  Lowell  declined  the  Ode. 

I  am  going  night  and  day  on  my  Centennial  Ode  for 
the  Magazine,  which  is  to  be  illustrated  and  made  the 
feature  of  the  July  number.  It  has  to  be  furnished  early 
in  April,  and  I  am  only  about  half  through.  Some  peo 
ple  will  put  their  hands  to  their  ears  at  the  doctrine  it 
preaches.  My  musical  engagement  here  is  now  com 
pleted,  and  as  the  poem  is  the  only  piece  of  work  I  have, 
I  suppose  God  intends  me  to  feed  on  blackberries  all 
the  summer. 

Charley  sends  you  his  love,  with  which  also  goes  that 
of  your  friend,  S.  L. 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK,  March  26,  1876. 
MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  After  all,  I   can't  reply  at  length, 
even  to-night,  to  your  penultimate  letter.     You  are  quite 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  1 57 

right  in  your  application  of  your  scheme  of  Song  to 
many  of  my  poems ;  I  am  well  aware  of  the  deficiencies 
of  my  early  work.  Nor  do  I  disagree  with  you  at  all  in 
regard  to  the  necessity  of  strictly  proper-timed  form ; 
only  there  is  no  single  schema  for  all  themas,  and  my  na 
ture  bids  me  elaborate  and  round  a  poetical  conception  in 
my  brain  before  I  write,  letting  it  find  its  own  manner  and 
form.  Poetical  ideas  have  a  wilful  being  of  their  own, 
and  there  are  cases  where  they  are  best  expressed  through 
an  apparent  disregard  of  form.  Of  course  I  don't  refer 
here  to  my  hymn,  or  to  anything  of  my  own. 

While  keenly  feeling,  and  trying  more  and  more  to 
apprehend  the  beauty  of  perfect  form  in  verse,  some  in 
stinct  in  me  shrinks  from  too  rigidly  defining  it.  Is  this 
comprehensible  to  you? 

The  response  to  the  announcement  of  my  new  appoint 
ment  has  been  far  more  cordial  than  I  dared  to  hope 
for.  Bryant's  generous  notice  struck  the  key-note  which 
a  great  many  papers  have  echoed.  But  all  the  greater 
is  the  cloud  of  responsibility  hanging  over  me.  I  feel 
as  if  my  nerves  and  muscles  were  slowly  setting  for  a 
desperate  deed,  as  in  one  chosen  to  lead  a  forlorn  hope. 
But  I  can  only  give  what  is  in  me,  and  if  my  possible 
best  (under  the  depressing  circumstances)  is  counted 
failure,  I  hope  some  little  courage  of  nature  will  not  be 
denied  me. 

I  have  seen  no  single  notice  of  your  part  in  the  Open 
ing  solemnities  that  was  not  friendly.  Since  it  is  almost 
certain  that  Whittier  will  write  the  Hymn,  the  appropri 
ateness  of  the  two  selections  is  admitted  by  everybody. 
You  can  now  easily  make  yourself  (as  you  are)  the  rep 
resentative  of  the  South  in  American  Song. 

I  am  now  doing  —  and  shall  probably  continue  to  do 


158  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

• —  regular  daily  work  on  the  "  Tribune."  It 's  a  little 
hard  at  first,  after  twenty  years'  holiday  from  such  labor, 
but  I  'm  slowly  working  into  it.  I  must  give  up  much 
of  my  lecturing,  or  I  shall  never  get  on  with  my  life  of 
Goethe;  and  six  hours  a  day  given  to  pot-boiling 
leaves  me  at  least  three  for  my  own  dear,  unpaying 
work. 

Bryant  probably  declined  on  account  of  his  age  — 
eighty-two ;  Longfellow  from  his  neuralgia  in  the  head ; 
Lowell  urged  illness  as  his  excuse,  but  I  think  there  must 
have  been  some  other  cause.  Whittier  and  Holmes  both 
urged  my  appointment,  and  so — here  I  am!  Some 
day,  I  hope,  the  circumstances  will  be  known,  and  I 
shall  get  at  least  a  little  credit  for  patriotic  willingness  to 
step  in  and  fill  up  the  breach  at  the  eleventh  hour. 

Love  to  Charlie  and  yourself  from 
Yours  ever  faithfully, 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

66  CENTRE  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD.,  April  i,  1876. 
MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  Will  you  do  me  the  favor  to 
read  this  and  send  it  back  to  me,  if  you  do  not  find  it 
objectionable?1  I  am  going  to  offer  it  to  the  "Trib 
une."  If  they  print  it,  so  :  if  they  do  not,  I  will  try 
some  one  else.  I  have  endeavored  to  speak  with  the 
utmost  justice  towards  the  "  Tribune's "  critic,  and 
modestly  as  regards  myself.  If  you  can  make  any 
suggestions  to  me  which  will  enable  me  to  see  it  other 
wise  than  a  duty  to  speak  at  all,  I  will  be  profoundly 
thankful  to  you.  In  any  case  of  a  poem  of  my  own 
private  giving  forth,  I  would  never  dream  of  rebuking 

1  A  defence  and  explanation  of  the  Centennial  Cantata  (see 
Lanier's  "  Music  and  Poetry,"  1898). 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  159 

the  most  brutal  critic  for  mistaking  my  artistic  purposes 
as  artistic  ignorances :  but  many  of  the  people  who  will 
read  this  "  Tribune  "  attack  are  not  only  incapable  of 
judging  its  correctness,  but  will  be  prevented  from 
seeing  the  whole  poem  for  yet  six  weeks,  and  will 
therefore  come  to  its  final  perusal  with  the  preposses 
sion  that  the  author  of  it  was  stupidly  ignorant  of  the 
first  principles  which  should  guide  a  writer  of  text  for 
music.  This  prepossession  is  a  wrong  on  the  public, 
and  without  reference  to  its  wrong  on  me  should  be 
immediately  and  decisively  overturned. 

Before  I  send  the  paper  to  the  "Tribune,"  I  will 
submit  it  to  Mr.  Buck. 

I  'm  hard  at  my  Ode,  and  see  the  beginning  of  the 
end.  Tell  me  how  you  fare  with  yours.  I  fervently 
pray  the  God  of  the  Poet  to  give  you  all  such  fire  as 
you  shall  want.  .  .  . 

Charley  joins  me  in  love  to  you. 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  April  3,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER:  I  must  write  very  hastily,  as 
usual,  for  in  addition  to  my  regular  work  and  extra 
business  matters  which  come  at  this  season,  the  Ode 
is  pressing  upon  me  with  might,  with  might ! 

I  don't  wonder  you  were  annoyed  at  the  notice  of 
your  Cantata  in  the  "  Tribune."  I  was  surprised  when 
I  saw  it ;  but  I  have  since  ascertained  how  it  came 
there.  It  is  published  by  Schirmer,  and  was  sent  to  Mr. 

to  be  noticed.  The  advertisement  to-day  says 

it  will  appear  shortly.  Mr.  Buck  must  explain  this :  I 

cannot.  Mr.  ,  of  course,  supposed  it  was  a 

legitimate  subject  to  write  about;  and  in  talking  with 


160  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

him  about  it  to-day,  I  learned  incidentally  that  he 
meant  no  special  criticism  of  the  text,  but  only  used 
what  he  thought  necessary  to  illustrate  the  music.  This 
does  not  lessen  your  grievance,  but  it  ought  to  modify 
your  expressions.  I  have  marked  with  a  pencil  certain 
things  which  I  earnestly  beg  you  to  omit.  In  such 
matters  the  man  who  betrays  his  exasperation  puts 
himself  at  a  disadvantage :  the  reading  public  never 
fully  apprehends  an  author's  position,  and  there  are  not 
fifty  readers  of  the  "Tribune"  who  would  comprehend 
your  annoyance  sufficiently  to  sympathize  with  your 
rejoinder.  Were  it  my  case,  my  first  thought  would  be 
to  reply  as  you  have  done  ;  my  second  thought  would  be, 
not  to  reply  at  all.  One  result  will  be  the  publication 
of  the  whole  text  at  once,  by  other  papers  ;  since  they 
can  now  so  easily  get  it. 

I  am  very  sorry  this  has  happened  so ;  but  I  think 
the  first  blame  belongs  to  the  premature  publication  of 
the  music  (which  includes  the  text).  Since  working 
on  the  "  Tribune "  I  have  learned  how  honest  and 

amiable is  by  nature  :  he  should  not  have  quoted 

anything,  but  /  know  that  he  supposed  he  was  free  to 
do  so.  I  knew  nothing  of  the  matter  until  after  I  saw 
the  article  in  print. 

I  must  break  off.  If  I  should  not  write  to  you  again 
for  three  weeks,  don't  imagine  I  forget  you,  but  my 
ideas  for  the  Ode  are  gathering,  and  the  distractions 
which  interrupt  them  make  me  almost  desperate.  I 
shall  probably  be  forced  to  run  away  from  New  York 
for  a  week  or  so. 

Ever  faithfully  your  friend, 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  161 

66  CENTRE  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  April  4,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  It  suddenly  occurs  to  me  — 
apropos  of  your  connection  with  the  "Tribune"  — 
that  in  sending  you  the  article  to  read  I  may  have 
rendered  myself  liable  to  a  fancy  on  your  part  (for  you 
have  not  known  me  very  long)  that  I  was  trying  in  a 
roundabout  way  to  secure  some  sort  of  interference  by 
you  in  its,  or  my,  behalf. 

But,  no  !  My  only  reason  for  sending  you  the  piece 
was  that  I  quite  distrust  my  own  judgment  in  such 
matters :  I  live  so  utterly  alone  that  just  as  a  deaf 
person  forgets  the  proper  intonations  of  voice  in  speak 
ing,  so  I  forget  how  matters  look,  and  go,  among  men ; 
and  I  therefore  sent  my  article  for  your  judgment  and 
advice  to  me  upon  its  propriety,  knowing  that  you  are 
more  among  men  than  I  am.  I  never  asked,  and  will 
never  ask,  help  in  such  a  matter;  and,  were  this  not 
so,  I  would  ask  it  directly,  or  not  at  all. 

By  the  grace  of  God  my  Centennial  Ode  is  finished. 
I  now  only  know  how  divine  has  been  the  agony  of  the 
last  three  weeks  during  which  I  have  been  rapt  away  to 
heights  where  all  my  own  purposes  as  to  a  revisal  of 
artistic  forms  lay  clear  before  me,  and  where  the  sole 
travail  was  of  choice  out  of  multitude. 

I  hope  to  see  you  on  Thursday,  being  called  by 
business  to  New  York.  Of  course  you  won't  care  to 
see  my  Ode  until  after  you  have  written  your  own,  — 
wherein  may  the  God  of  the  Artist  detach  His  best 
angels  to  your  service. 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 


n 


1 62  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

66  CENTRE  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD.,  Aprils,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  From  indications  at  Philadel 
phia  yesterday  I  deem  it  of  very  great  importance  to 
me  that  some  intelligent  criticism  of  my  poem  should 
appear  in  a  journal  of  standing.  Without  wishing  to 
guide  or  in  any  way  direct  criticism,  I  am  keenly  desir 
ous  that  the  poem  might  be  judged  on  the  plane  of  its 
principles,  leaving  the  critic  the  utmost  freedom  in 
pronouncing  how  far  it  has  succeeded  in  carrying  them 
out.  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  tell  you  —  in  all  our 
correspondence  about  the  poem  —  what  were  the  main 
considerations  leading  to  its  substance  and  form.  Please 
let  me  do  so  now. 

i  st.  The  principal  matter  over  which  the  United 
States  can  legitimately  exult  is  its  present  existence  as  a 
Republic,  in  spite  of  so  much  opposition  from  Nature 
and  from  man.  I  therefore  made  the  Refrain  of  the 
Song  —  about  which  all  its  train  of  thought  moves  — 
concern  itself  wholly  with  the  Fact  of  existence:  the 
waves  cry  "  //  shall  not  be  ;  "  the  powers  of  nature  cry 
"It  shall  not  be;"  the  wars,  etc.  utter  the  same  cry. 
This  Refrain  is  the  key  to  the  whole  poem. 

2d.  The  poem  was  limited  to  sixty  lines  :  in  which 
space  I  had  to  compress  the  past  and  the  future  of  the 
country,  together  with  some  reference  to  the  present 
occasion.  This  necessitated  the  use  of  the  highly 
generalized  terms  which  occur,  —  as  for  instance  when, 
in  the  "  Good  Angel's  Song,"  the  fundamental  philoso 
phies  of  Art,  of  Science,  of  Power,  of  Polity,  of  Faith, 
and  of  Social  Life,  are  presented  in  the  simple  Saxon 
words,  and  in  one  line  each. 

3d.  I  wished  that  the  poem  might  belie  the  old 
slander  upon  our  tendency  to  Fourth  of  July  uproari- 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  163 

ousness,  buncombe,  spread-eagleism,  and  the  like.  I 
tried,  therefore,  to  make  it  the  quietest  poem  possible. 
4th.  A  knowledge  of  the  inability  of  music  to  repre 
sent  any  shades  of  meaning  save  those  which  are  very 
intense,  and  very  highly  and  sharply  contrasted,  led  me 
to  divide  the  poem  into  the  eight  paragraphs  or  move 
ments  which  it  presents,  and  to  make  these  vividly 
opposed  to  each  other  in  sentiment.  Thus  the  first 
movement  is  reflection,  measured  and  sober :  this  sud 
denly  changes  into  the  agitato  of  the  second :  this 
agitato,  culminating  in  the  unison  shout  "  No  /  It  shall 
not  be"  yields  in  the  third  movement  to  the  pianissimo 
and  meagre  effect  of  the  skeleton  voices  from  James 
town,  etc  :  this  pianissimo  in  the  fourth  movement  is 
turned  into  a  climax  of  the  wars  of  armies  and  of 
faiths,  again  ending  in  the  shout,  "  No  ! "  etc. :  the 
fifth  movement  opposes  this  with  a  whispered  chorus  — 
Huguenots  whispering  Yea,  etc. :  the  sixth  opposes 
again  with  loud  exultation,  "Now  praise,"  etc.:  the 
seventh  opposes  this  with  the  single  voice  singing  the 
Angels'  song;  and  the  last  concludes  the  series  of 
contrasts  with  a  broad  full  chorus  of  measured  and 
firm  sentiment. 

5th.  So  far  I  have  spoken  of  the  main  circumstances 
determining  the  substance  of  the  poem.  The  metrical 
forms  were  selected  purely  with  reference  to  their 
descriptive  nature  :  the  four  trochaic  feet  of  the  open 
ing  strophe  measure  off  reflection,  the  next  (Mayflower) 
strophe  swings  and  yaws  like  a  ship,  the  next  I  made 
outre"  and  bizarre  and  bony  simply  by  the  device  of 
interposing  the  line  of  two  and  a  half  trochees  amongst 
the  four  trochee  lines  :  the  swift  action  of  the  Huguenot 
strophe  of  course  required  dactyls :  and  having  thus 


1 64  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

kept  the  first  part  of  the  poem  (which  describes  the 
time  before  we  were  a  real  nation)  in  metres  which 
are  as  it  were  exotic  to  our  tongue,  I  now  fall  into 
the  Iambic  metre  —  which  is  the  genius  of  English 
words  —  as  soon  as  the  Nation  becomes  secure  and 
firm. 

6th.  My  business  as  member  of  the  orchestra  for 
three  years  having  caused  me  to  sit  immediately  in 
front  of  the  bassoons,  I  had  often  been  struck  with  the 
possibility  of  producing  the  ghostly  effects  of  that  part 
of  the  bassoon  register  so  well  known  to  students  of 
Berlioz  and  Meyerbeer — by  the  use  of  the  syllable  ee 
sung  by  a  chorus.  With  this  view  I  filled  the  ghostly 
Jamestown  Stanza  with  ee's, — and  would  have  put  in 
more  if  I  could  have  found  them  appropriate  to  the 
sense. 

Now  let  me  ask  your  friendship  two  questions. 

i  St.  Is  there  any  proper  way  in  which  you  could 
call  the  attention  of  the  "Tribune"  literary  critic  — 
whenever  my  poem  as  poem  is  to  be  noticed  —  to 
these  considerations  I  have  above  enumerated?  Would 
it  be  trespassing  either  upon  his,  my,  or  your  posi 
tion,  if  you  should  hand  him  what  I  have  written 
above  ? 

2d.  In  view  of  the  fact  that  the  poem  is  now  printed 
with  the  piano  score  and  is  liable  at  any  time  to  be 
copied  —  and  copied  badly  —  by  other  papers,  would 
it  not  be  well  for  me  if  it  were  printed  by  the  "  Trib 
une  "  properly? 

In  fine,  I  am  convinced  that  if  one  influential  paper 
would  take  the  initiative  in  judging  the  poem  from  the 
above  standpoint,  all  the  loose  opinion  would  crystallize 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  165 

about  it ;  and,  if  not,  I  shall  be  cruelly  misjudged  and 
mistreated. 

Two  reflections  make  me  bold  enough  to  ask  this  of 
you  :  first,  that  I  would  so  gladly  embrace  any  oppor 
tunity  of  giving  you  my  love  in  this  or  any  other  way : 
and,  second,  that  I  feel  as  if  the  great  wrong  done 

me  by  Mr. 's  criticism  gave  me    a  half-right  and 

claim  upon  the  paper.  If  the  enclosed  letter  of  Dudley 
Buck's1  would  be  of  any  service  in  this  connection, 
let  it  be. 

1  ioo  WEST  54TH  ST.,  April  4,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  LANIER,  —  I  am  sorry  that  the  "Tribune" 
article  gave  you  pain,  but  after  you  have  been  dissected,  flayed, 
and  otherwise  disposed  of  as  many  times  as  I  have  been,  you 
will  not  wince  at  one  newspaper  article.  No,  I  did  not  find 
the  poem  so  difficult  to  set  as  it  strikes  the  critic  of  the  "  Trib 
une,"  whose  article  was  as  great  a  surprise  to  me  as  to  yourself. 
The  "  pitfalls  "  referred  to  were  rather  godsends  in  my  case, 
with  exception  of  the  (2)  Jamestown  and  Plymouth  lines.  The 
tough  spot  for  me  was  the  first  verse,  after  which  everything 
seemed  to  fall  into  shape  of  its  own  accord.  It  is  not  a  matter 
of  number  of  feet  or  kind  of  verse  with  me,  so  much  as  whether 
I  take  a  fancy  to  a  poem  — which  I  did  in  your  case. 

Since  the  work  appeared  and  the  rehearsals  commenced  in 
Philadelphia,  I  have  of  course  heard  a  multitude  of  expressions 
in  regard  to  the  poem,  and  find  that  my  original  judgment  of  its 
effect  on  various  minds  is  correct  —  viz.,  the  more  intelligence 
(more  particularly  in  the  line  of  poetry)  a  person  possesses  the 
better  he  likes  it.  Several  have  said  to  me  "  these  words  grow 
upon  me  every  time  I  read  them."  One  person  in  particular 
astonished  me  at  the  first  rehearsal  by  saying,  after  reading  them 
through  once,  that  he  could  n't  understand  them.  It  was  a  person 
of  intelligence.  I  remarked  simply  that  I  thought  he  had  better 
give  the  poem  two  or  three  readings.  He  came  to  me  last  week, 
and  said  he  wanted  to  take  back  what  he  had  said  about  the  poem, 
and  he  too  remarked  as  above  in  regard  to  their  growing  upon 
him.  This  trait  is  certainly  true  of  a  vast  number  of  the  best 


1 66  Letters  of  Sidney  Lamer 

Buck  showed  me  Mr.  Whittier's  hymn  yesterday, 
which  was  just  received.  I  noticed  the  two  lines.1  It 
is  good. 

I  trust  with  perfect  confidence  to  your  candor  in  this 
matter,  —  if  my  request  seem  bizarre,  or  in  any  the 
least  wise  improper. 

God  bless  you. 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  LANIER. 

P.  S.  I  should  like  it  to  be  stated  that  I  have  been  a 
member  of  the  Peabody  Orchestra  for  three  years,  under 
Asger  Hamerik.  S.  L. 

April  n,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  I  have  spoken  to  Reid  about 
your  Cantata,  and  he  thinks  that  under  the  circum 
stances  it  would  be  well  to  publish  it.  There  can  be  no 
objection,  as  it  is  already  in  the  hands  of  the  chorus, 
and  may  appear  in  print  at  any  day.  I  shall  therefore 
write  an  appropriate  and  explanatory  introduction  to- 

things   by    the    best   men, — I    think  eminently  so   in    case  of 
Tennyson. 

It  was  this  which  made  me  so  desirous  to  have  the  poem 
printed  in  advance  of  the  music.  Then  it  would  have  been 
studied  and  analyzed  per  se,  and  they  would  have  gotten  at  the 
merits  of  it  quicker.  Why  this  was  not  permitted  has  always 
been  beyond  my  comprehension.  In  a  word  I  think  the  intelli 
gence  of  the  country  will  be  on  your  side,  and  about  the  rest  I 
would  not  trouble  myself.  Be  therefore  comforted  and  write 
me  a  dramatic  cantata! 

Have  you  any  "  bits  "  lying  about  that  would  do  for  songs  ? 
In  haste  —  Very  truly  yours, 

DUDLEY  BUCK. 

1  Used  by  Mr.  Whittier  from  Mr.  Taylor's  Hymn  (written 
before  he  was  commissioned  to  prepare  the  Ode).  See  Pickard's 
Life  of  Whittier. 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  167 

day,  and  it  will  probably  appear  to- morrow.  I  cannot 
go  quite  as  much  into  technical  details  as  you  may  de 
sire,  or  as  1  should  do  under  other  circumstances,  since 
I  write  for  the  same  paper  and  in  the  same  editorial 
form  as  the  musical  criticism.  But  I  shall  do  my  best 
to  set  other  papers  upon  the  track  of  a  right  under 
standing.  I  trust  you  will  understand  the  restrictions 
under  which  I  must  write  :  I  am  not  free.  Perhaps  you 
had  better  hint  to  Gen.  Hawley  that  the  publication 
has  your  sanction. 

In  great  haste,  as  I  go  to  Phila.  to-morrow,  and  the 
Ode  —  the  Ode  — 

Ever  B.  T. 

These  are  the  last  references  in  the  correspondence  to 
the  criticisms  and  ridicule  of  the  Centennial  Cantata, 
which,  as  shown  here,  gave  Mr.  Lanier  no  little  pain 
at  the  time.  This  was  due,  however,  far  less  to  per 
sonal  sensitiveness  than  to  the  feeling  that  his  critics 
were  falsifying  before  the  public  principles  of  art  which 
seemed  to  him  vital ;  and  it  was  to  combat  what  he 
believed  to  be  an  obscuring  of  fundamental  truth  that 
he  finally  sent  to  one  of  the  New  York  newspapers  a 
complete  statement  of  his  conception  (which  appears 
in  the  recent  volume  of  collected  essays,  Music  and 
Poetry). 

In  the  early  part  of  July,  1876,  Mr.  Lanier  was  in 
Philadelphia  for  a  few  days,  at  the  time  when  his  first 
volume  of  poems  (containing  "  Corn,"  "  The  Symphony," 
"  The  Psalm  of  the  West,"  "  In  Absence,"  "  Acknowledg 
ment,"  "Betrayal,"  Special  Pleading,"  "To  Charlotte 
Cushman,"  "  Rose  Morals,"  and  "  To ,  with  a  Rose," 


1 68  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

with  the  dedicatory  stanzas  to  Charlotte  Cushman)  was 
published  by  the  Lippincotts.  He  was  just  recovering 
from  a  sharp  attack  of  the  disease  which  he  was  to  fight 
continuously  for  the  next  five  years,  but  the  cheerful 
serenity  brought  him  by  his  growing  power  in  his  art  is 
written  large  over  the  hint  of  physical  distress  in  the 
next  letter:  — 

1425  WALNUT  ST.,  PHILADELPHIA,  PA.,/«/?,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  I  write  a  mere  note  to  say, 
in  answer  to  your  kind  inquiry  about  my  volume,  that 
Mr.  Peacock  bought  up  a  copy  yesterday  which  had  just 
been  sent  to  the  Bulletin  Office,  from  which  I  presume 
that  the  book  is  now  published.  I  Ve  been  here  (at  the 
Peacocks')  for  several  days  very  ill,  and  have  not  seen 
the  publishers  in  a  long  time  —  which  accounts  for  my 
lack  of  more  precise  knowledge.  The  book  is  called 
simply  "  Poems,  By  S.  L."  I  '11  have  a  copy  sent  you  as 
soon  as  I  get  out. 

I  'm  glad  to  find  that  the  lectures  are  swelling  your 
purse.  I  hope  the  golden  shower  will  thicken  until  the 
Bureau  shall  represent  a  substantial  Jupiter  and  you  a 
well-satisfied  Danae. 

I  found  pleasure  in  learning  from  your  letter  that  the 
«  Evening  Post  "  had  copied  the  sonnets.  I  can't  tell 
you  with  what  ravishing  freedom  and  calmness  I  find 
myself  writing,  in  these  days,  nor  how  serene  and  sunny 
the  poetic  region  seems  to  lie,  in  front,  like  broad  up 
land  fields  and  slopes.  I  write  all  the  time,  and  sit 
down  to  the  paper  with  the  poems  already  done.  I 
hope  to  have  out  another  volume  soon  of  work  which 
will  show  a  much  quieter  technique  than  this  one.  A 
modern  French  writer  has  spoken  of  the  works  of  the 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  169 

great  Artists  of  the  world  as  being  like  the  high  white 
clouds  which  sail  calmly  over  a  green  valley  on  a  sum 
mer  day.  This  seems  to  me  very  beautiful. 

If  you  should  write  within  a  week,  address  me  here : 
afterwards  at  West  Chester,  as  usual. 

My  wife  would  join  me,  if  she  were  here,  in  cordial 
messages  to  you  and  Mrs.  Taylor.  We  have  been  hear 
ing  some  very  fine  stories  of  you  from  your  true  friend 
and  admirer  Mrs.  Roberts  (nee  Anderson),  at  whose 
house  in  West  Philadelphia  we  have  been  staying,  to 
see  the  Exhibition. 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 

WEST  CHESTER,  PA.,/«/K  19,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  I  'm  just  crawling  back 
into  some  sort  of  shambling  activity  after  a  very  depress 
ing  illness ;  and  my  congratulations  on  the  success  of 
your  Ode  will  therefore  not  be  considered  by  you  as  too 
late  to  enter  in. 

I  found  that  General  Hawley  had  been  kind  enough 
to  send  me  an  invitation  to  the  platform ;  but  it  did  not 
arrive  until  some  days  after  the  event,  having  been  sent 
to  Baltimore  and  forwarded  from  several  other  ad 
dresses  before  finally  reaching  me.  I  hear,  however,  the 
most  pleasant  accounts  of  the  complete  success  both  of 
your  matter  and  your  manner  on  the  "  stately  day  "  from 
Mr.  Peacock.  My  retired  position  —  we  are  boarding 
at  a  farmhouse  about  a  mile  from  West  Chester,  Mr. 
Thompson's  —  has  rather  taken  me  out  of  range  of 
the  newspapers,  and  I  have  seen  no  newspaper  ac 
count  of  the  ceremonies  except  the  Philadelphia 
"  Bulletin's."  I  sincerely  hope  that  the  malice  which 
you  thought  likely  might  seize  this  opportunity  to  vent 


170  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

itself  has  recoiled  before  the  calm  and  noble  front  of 
your  ode.  I  have  not  seen  or  heard  any  evidences 
of  its  activity. 

My  wife  sends  you  all  manner  of  pleasant  messages, 
which  I  should  detail  if  I  were  strong  enough  to  do 
much  writing.  Please  keep  me  in  fair  remembrance 
with  Mrs.  Taylor  and  your  daughter. 

My  address  is  simply  "  West  Chester,"  where  I  have 
a  box  at  the  P.  O.  I  hope  you  are  not  now  so  busy 
as  before  the  Fourth  and  are  finding  some  time  to 
rest. 

Your  faithful  S.  L. 

N.  Y.,/«/y  21,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  I  'm  very  glad  to  hear  from  you. 
Am  nearly  dead  from  heat  and  unending  work,  and  can 
only  thank  you  for  your  kind  congratulations.  The  Ode 
made  an  impression  which  amazed  me :  it  is  something 
worth  living  for.  Of  course  all  sneers  are  powerless  now  : 
but  they  are  on  hand  ! 

I  expect  to  make  Cedarcroft  my  home  for  ten  days, 
beginning  about  a  fortnight  from  now;  and  then  you 
must  come  over  and  spend  a  day  with  me. 

Where  is  Thompson's?     My  kindest  greeting  to  Mrs. 

Lanier. 

Fluidly,  yet  faithfully,  B.  T. 

WEST  CHESTER,  PA.,  September  21,  1876. 
MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR:  In  spite  of  the  rejected 
poem  which  your  letter  contained,  I  was  glad  —  O 
Might  of  Friendship  (for  I  fondly  expected  twenty-five 
dollars  instead  of  this  MS.)  !  —  to  get  your  little  mes 
sage.  I  don't  at  all  know  why  they  sent  it  to  you; 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  171 

the  poem  contained  my  address  plainly  written  on  the 
last  page.  It  was  making  you  particeps  criminis.  In 
order  that  you  may  see  the  unrelieved  blackness  of 
their  (/.  <?.,  Dr.  Holland's)  guilt,  I  send  you  the  poem 
and  message  accompanying,  which  you  can  read 
in  some  little  by-time  when  you  Ve  nothing  better 
to  do. 

As  to  pen  and  ink,  and  all  toil,  I  've  been  almost 
suppressed  by  continual  illness.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
much  I  sigh  for  some  quiet  evenings  at  the  Century 
where  I  might  hear  some  of  you  talk  about  the  matters 
I  love,  or  merely  sit  and  think  in  the  atmosphere  of  the 
thinkers.  I  fancy  one  can  almost  come  to  know  the 
dead  thinkers  too  well :  a  certain  mournfulness  of 
longing  seems  sometimes  to  peer  out  from  behind  one's 
joy  in  one's  Shakespeare  and  one's  Chaucer, — a  sort  of 
physical  protest  and  yearning  of  the  living  eye  for  its 
like.  Perhaps  one's  friendship  with  the  dead  poets 
comes  indeed  to  acquire  something  of  the  quality  of 
worship,  through  the  very  mystery  which  withdraws 
them  from  us  and  which  allows  no  more  messages  from 
them,  cry  how  we  will,  after  that  sudden  and  perilous 
Stoppage.  I  hope  those  are  not  illegitimate  moods  in 
which  one  sometimes  desires  to  surround  oneself  with 
a  companionship  less  awful,  and  would  rather  have  a 
friend  than  a  god. 

May  joins  me  in  begging  to  be  kept  in  remembrance 
by  the  ladies  of  your  house. 

Don't  take  the  trouble  of  returning  the  poem.  I  've 
another  copy. 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  L. 


172  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK,  September  23,  1876. 
MY  DEAR  LANIER  :    I  Ve  read  your  poem    over   sev 
eral  times,  and  am  quite  clear  about  it.    The  title,  "The 
Waving  of  the  Corn,"  is  slightly  fantastic,  rather  than 
fanciful,  and  the  word,  or  act,  of  waving  is  too  weak  for 
a  refrain.    The  last  stanza  is  quite  unnecessary  :  it  drops 
out  of  the  tone  of  the  three  preceding  ones,  forces  a 
moral  where  none  is  needed,  and  is  in  no  sense  poetical. 
Voila  tout!  I  don't  know  that  precisely  these  things  de 
cided  Dr.  Holland ;  but  I  feel  pretty  sure  that  he  would 
have  accepted  the  poem  had  they  not  been.     The  rest 
is  so  sweet,  tranquil,  and  beautiful,  that  it  has  the  best 
right  to  be,  without  a  moral.     Now,  don't  take  offence, 
but  let  me  make  the  changes  in  your  MS.  and  send  with 
this,  just  to  show  you  —  not  how  /  should  have  written 
it   (our  ways  are  not  the  same,  you  know),  but  how  I 
think  you  should  have  written  it.      The  feeling  of  peace 
and  blissful  pastoral  seclusion  is  so  exquisitely  expressed 
that  the  poem  should  be  restricted  to  that  only. 

Best  greetings  to  your  wife  from  both  of  us. 
Ever  faithfully, 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

I  think  I  could  get  the  "  Galaxy  "  to  take  the  poem. 

WEST  CHESTER,  PA.,  October  6,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  I  Ve  been  absent  in  Balti 
more,  and  this  will  explain  my  delay  in  writing  to  thank 
you  for  the  evident  trouble  you  were  at  in  behalf  of  my 
poem.  Your  somewhat  serious  defence  of  Dr.  Holland 
leads  me  to  fear,  a  little,  that  you  misunderstood  my 
allusion  to  his  "  criminality,"  etc.  in  rejecting  the  poem  — 
which  I  meant  for  the  merest  joke.  A  good  deal  of  ex 
perience  in  these  matters  renders  it  quite  impossible  for 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  173 

me  to  have  any  feeling  as  to  the  judgment  of  any  given 
person  upon  the  merits  of  a  poem,  or  its  availability  for 
magazine  purposes :  for  I  have  seen  that  these  judg 
ments  depend  upon  two  elements  which  are  infinitely  vari 
able  :  the  mood  of  the  person  judging,  and  the  particular 
idea  which  he  may  have  formed  in  his  mind  of  that 
phantasm  called  the  General  Public.  Certainly  nothing 
can  be  more  striking  than  the  perpetual  reversal  of  such 
decrees  by  time  and  the  popular  tide ;  and  the  day  is 
quite  past  when  I  could  be  in  the  least  disturbed  by  any 
contemporary  judgment  either  as  to  the  artistic  quality, 
or  probable  popularity,  of  a  poem. 

I  am  thus  didactically  particular  for  the  reason  that 
you  really  seemed  to  think  I  was  cherishing  enmity 

against  the  gentlemen,  whereas  the  fact  is  that  I 

feel  greatly  obliged  to  them  for  a  general  reception  of 
my  little  offerings  far  more  hearty  than  I  could  expect, 
in  view  of  our  wholly  different  ways  of  looking  at  things. 

And  as  for  your  prefacing  your  own  suggestions  with 
"Now  don't  take  offence,  but,"  etc.  —  nothing  could  be 
more  absurd,  —  offence,  indeed  ! 

I  find  myself  agreeing  with  two  of  your  verbal  criticisms 
on  "  The  Waving  of  the  Corn  "  (the  "  haply  undainty  " 
and  the  equivocal  "  faint  "),  and  though  not  agreeing  at 
all  with  your  condemnation  of  the  last  stanza,  I  think  I 
will  strike  it  out  as  likely  to  produce  a  disagreeable  im 
pression  of  moralizing.  In  reality  it  is  a  vigorous  carry 
ing  out  of  the  idea  of  personal  tranquillity;  advancing 
beyond  that  to  the  conception  of  the  larger  tranquillity 
of  Society. 

It 's  very  good  of  you  to  offer  to  try  the  "  Galaxy," 
but  I  wouldn't  like  the  poem  to  win  a  place  in  print 
upon  any  influence  save  its  own  merits;  and  if  this 


174  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

objection  were  disposed  of,  I  could  not  bear  to  think  of 
giving  such  trouble  to  so  busy  a  man  as  I  know  you 
to  be. 

Pray  tell  me  of  Deucalion  and  Pyrrha.  Have  the 
world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil  completely  crowded  the 
sweet  typic  Man  and  Woman  to  the  wall?  I  hope  you 
manage  to  escape  into  their  larger  realm  sometimes. 

Will  you  probably  be  lecturing  in  Baltimore  this 
winter?  It  now  seems  likely  I  will  hibernate  there. 
My  wife  joins  me  in  warm  messages  to  you  and  Mrs. 
Taylor. 

Your  faithful,  S.  L. 

WEST  CHESTER,  PA.,  October  22,  1876. 

DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  I  hope  you  '11  like  these  en 
closed  sonnets,1  from  the  November  number  of  "  Lip- 
pincott's  "  just  out.  I  believe  I  think  more  of  the  two 
first  than  of  anything  I  have  done ;  the  last  two  are 
redactions  of  two  earlier  ones  which  I  think  you  have 
seen  in  manuscript. 

I  hope  you  and  Mrs.  Taylor  are  well.  I  suppose  Miss 
Lilian  is  away  at  Vassar  by  this  time. 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK,  November  15,  1876. 
MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  I  write  now  in  order  that  this 
may  catch  you  in  Philadelphia.  It 's  very  pleasant  to 
get  such  good  news  (barring  the  illness)  of  your  poetic 
activity.  All  poets  have  periods,  and  you  are  just  pass 
ing  from  one  into  another.  I  have  seen  and  felt  this, 
but  did  not  say  so,  because  I  was  not  sure  whether  you 
quite  knew  it  yourself;  but  now  I  may  freely  say  that  I 

i  "Acknowledgments." 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  175 

comprehend  the  change  and  rejoice  in  it  for  your  sake. 
I  am  especially  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  thinking  already 
of  a  new  volume  :  the  technique  is  really  an  important 
matter  —  as  much  so  in  verse  as  in  sculpture. 

I  await  the  volume  with  real  interest,  although  I  prob 
ably  know  the  whole  of  it  already.  But  poems,  some 
how,  have  a  different  atmosphere  when  they  are  collected 
and  placed  side  by  side ;  so  I  shall  be  sure  to  get  new 
views  of  your  achievement.' 

As  for  myself,  the  lectures  are  not  over-abundant.  If 
I  save  enough  during  the  whole  winter  to  take  me  to  the 
Sulphur  Springs  of  Virginia  for  two  months  next  summer, 
I  must  be  satisfied.  I  am  quite  fagged  and  wearied,  — 
incapable  of  poetry,  —  hardly  capable  of  my  routine  work 
on  the  "  Tribune." 

I  caught  a  severe  cold  at  Philadelphia,  on  the  loth, 
my  wife  is  not  well,  and  we  hear  of  nothing  but  acci 
dents  or  deaths  in  the  family ;  —  this  is  my  regular  sea 
son  for  bad  news,  and  I  cannot  expect  anything  cheering 
until  the  winter  solstice  is  over  and  the  sun  begins  to 
return.  I  am  not  naturally  despondent,  but  it 's  a 
little  hard  to  keep  cheerful  when  one  is  physically 
depressed. 

Give  my  love  to  Peacock,  whom  I  shall  be  always 
most  glad  to  see  here,  whenever  he  comes  this  way.  I 
have  lately  found  a  new  friend  in  the  "  Portland  Press  " 
(apparently  a  woman) ,  a  critic  of  rare  insight  and  sym 
pathy.  But  I  have  also  a  word  of  cheer  for  you  :  I 
see  that  you  are  finding  quiet  friends,  genuine  apprecia- 
tors  —  therefore,  Sursum  corda !  All  will  be  right  in 
the  end. 

Ever  faithfully  yours, 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


176  Letters  of  Sidney  Lamer 

1425  WALNUT  ST.,  PHILADELPHIA,  PA., 
November  24,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  A  peculiar  affection  of  the 
side  has  almost  incapacitated  me  for  any  use  of  the  pen, 
temporarily ;  but  I  must  send  you  a  little  note  in  order  to 
share  with  you  —  for  I  would  like  you  to  have  half  of  all 
my  good  things  in  this  world  —  the  pleasure  which  your 
generous  notice  in  the  "  Tribune  "  has  given  me.  I  rec 
ognized  it  as  yours  at  once;  and  I  therefore  did  not 
stint  myself  in  my  enjoyment  of  its  appreciative  expres 
sions  any  more  than  I  would  mar  my  smoking  of  your 
cigars,  or  my  drinking  of  your  wine,  with  arrtires  pensees 
—  for  I  knew  that  the  one  was  as  free  as  the  other. 

I  was  particularly  pleased  with  the  light  way  in  which 
you  touched  upon  my  faults ;  and  I  say  this  not  hastily, 
but  upon  a  principle  to  which  I  Ve  given  a  good  deal 
of  meditation.  The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  more  I 
am  convinced  that  every  genuine  artist  may  be  safely 
trusted  with  his  own  defects.  I  feel  perfectly  sure  that 
there  are  stages  of  growth  —  particularly  with  artists  of 
very  great  sensibility  who  live  remote  from  the  business 
life  of  men  —  in  which  one's  habitual  faults  are  already  apt 
to  be  unhealthily  exaggerated  from  within ;  and  the  addi 
tional  forcings  of  such  a  tendency  from  without,  through 
perpetual  reminders  of  shortcomings,  becomes  positively 
hurtful,  by  proud-fleshing  the  artistic  conscience  and 
making  it  unnaturally  timid  and  irritable.  In  looking 
around  at  the  publications  of  the  younger  American 
poets  I  am  struck  with  the  circumstance  that  none  of 
them  even  attempt  anything  great.  The  morbid  fear  of 
doing  something  wrong  or  unpolished  appears  to  have 
influenced  their  choice  of  subjects.  Hence  the  endless 
multiplication  of  those  little  feeble  magazine- lyrics  which 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  177 

we  all  know :  consisting  of  one  minute  idea,  each,  which 
is  put  in  the  last  line  of  the  fourth  verse,  the  other  three 
verses  and  three  lines  being  mere  sawdust  and  surplusage. 

It  seems  to  me  to  be  a  fact  bearing  directly  upon  all 
this,  that  if  we  inquire  who  are  the  poets  that  must  be 
read  with  the  greatest  allowances  we  find  them  to  be 
precisely  the  greatest  poets.  What  enormous  artistic 
crimes  do  we  have  continually  to  pardon  in  Homer, 
Dante,  Shakespeare  !  iHow  often  is  the  first  utterly  dull 
and  long-winded,  the  second  absurdly  credulous  and 
superstitious,  the  third  overdone  and  fantastical !  /  But 
we  have  long  ago  settled  all  this,  we  have  forgiven  them 
their  sins,  we  have  ceased  to  place  emphasis  upon  the 
matters  in  which  they  displease  us ;  and  when  we  recall 
their  works  our  minds  instinctively  confine  remembrance 
to  their  beauties  only.  And  applying  this  principle  to 
the  great  exemplars  of  the  other  arts  besides  poetry,  I 
think  we  find  no  exception  to  the  rule  that  as  to  the 
great  artist,  we  always  have  to  take  him  cum  onere. 

I  have  to  send  you  my  thanks  very  often  :  I  hope 
they  don't  become  monotonous  to  you.  Your  praise  has 
really  given  me  a  great  deal  of  genuine  and  fruitful 
pleasure.  The  truth  is  that,  as  for  censure,  I  am  over 
loaded  with  my  own :  but  as  for  commendation  I  am 
mainly  in  a  state  of  famine ;  so  that  while  I  cannot,  for 
very  surfeit,  profitably  digest  the  former,  I  have  such  a 
stomach  for  the  latter  as  would  astonish  gods  and  men. 

Your  last  note  gave  me  pain,  with  hints  of  calamity  in 
your  family,  and  of  your  own  need  of  physical  rest. 
You  won't  laugh  if  I  tell  you  —  apropos  of  my  haunting 
desire  to  see  you  at  liberty  from  the  shackles  of  daily 
bread  and  free  to  work  entirely  upon  poetry  —  that  I 
was  yesterday  half-dreaming,  alone,  in  my  sick-chair, 

12 


178  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

that  my  portion  of  the  Jennings  estate  in  England  (to 
which  I  am  really  one  of  the  chief  heirs)  had  arrived, 
and  I  had  just  addressed  you  a  little  note  stating  that  in 
a  certain  bank  of  New  York  there  was  deposited  to  your 

credit  the  sum  of thousand  (I  held  over  this  blank 

to  fill  up  at  my  leisure)  dollars  which  I  begged  you 
would  use,  if  for  no  other  reason  at  least  to  save  me  the 
trouble  of  thinking  what  else  to  do  with  it,  —  the  same 
to  be  repaid  some  time  or  other  in  heaven ;  —  where 
gold  would  be  plenty  and  cheap  —  when  I  awoke 
without  even  having  had  the  pleasure  of  filling  out  the 
blank. 

And  this  is  a  fearsome  long  screed  for  what  started  to 
be  a  "  note."  But  you  will  pardon  this  as  you  would 
pardon  any  other  fault  in 

Your  faithful  true  friend,  S.  L. 

1425  WALNUT  ST.,  PHILADELPHIA,  PA., 
November  29,  1876. 

DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  I  want  to  try  the  Editor  of 
"  Harper's  Magazine "  with  the  poem  in  enclosed 
envelope.  I  don't  even  know  who  is  the  editor :  will 
you  be  kind  enough  to  address  the  envelope  and  mail 
it  for  me? 

Yours  containing  the  "Evening  Post "  notice  came, 
and  was  "  accepted  with  thanks."  Who  is  the  Literary 
Editor  of  the  "Post"?  Is  it  Mr.  George  C.  Eggleston, 
as  I  think  I  have  been  told? 

I  'm  better  and  go  to  Baltimore  on  Monday,  to  fulfill 
orchestral  engagement.  Letters  will  reach  me  still  if 
addressed  to  West  Chester,  where  my  wife  will  remain 
for  some  time ;  my  Baltimore  address  will  be  40  Mt. 
Vernon  Place. 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  179 

I  hope  you  are  well.  Pray  commend  me  to  Mrs. 
Taylor.  I  'm  writing  hastily.  I  stay  with  the  Peacocks 
until  Sunday  afternoon. 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 

WESTMINSTER  HOTEL,  4  Afternoon,  Wednesday. 
MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  I  'm  going  to  be  in  my  room 
here  for  the  balance  of  the  day  and  evening.  If  you 
have  n't  anything  .better  to  do,  pray  come  to  me.  I 
wish  to  see  you  particularly.  Your  letter  reached  me 
yesterday  morning  just  before  I  left  Baltimore. 

My  regards  to  Mrs.  Taylor,  —  which  I  would  present 
in  person,  but  it  is  too  cold  for  me  to  venture  out.- 

Your  faithful  S.  L. 

1425  WALNUT  ST.,  PHILADELPHIA,  PA., 
December  6,  1876. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  My  physician  has  become 
alarmed  at  the  gravity  and  persistence  of  my  illness  and 
orders  me  immediately  to  Florida,  denouncing  death 
unless  a  warm  climate  is  speedily  reached.  He  might 
as  well  talk  to  the  stars  whose  light  has  n't  yet  reached 
us,  as  try  to  persuade  me  that  any  conceivable  combi 
nation  of  circumstances  could  induce  me  to  die  before 
I  've  written  and  published  my  five  additional  volumes 
of  poems ;  nevertheless  it  is  decided  that  my  wife  is  to 
leave  here  with  me  on  Monday  night  next,  for  Florida, 
and  I  'm  scratching  this  hasty  note,  in  the  possibility  that 
your  nomadic  habits  might  bring  you  to  Philadelphia 
within  that  time,  simply  to  ask  that  you  won't  fail  —  if 
they  should  bring  you  here  —  to  give  me  a  final  sight  of 
you.  I  'm  still  at  the  Peacocks'. 

I  hope  you  did  n't  take  cold  at  Greenwood  the  other 
day.  My  wife  would  join  me  in  messages  to  you  and 


1 80  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Mrs.  Taylor,  but  she  ran  over  to  New  York  this  morning 
on  a  flying  business  visit  for  a  couple  of  days. 
Many  thanks  for  the  "  Post "  notice. 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 

TAMPA,  FLA.,  January  n,  1877. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  What  would  I  not  give  to 
transport  you  from  your  frozen  sorrows  instantly  into  the 
midst  of  the  green  leaves,  the  gold  oranges,  the  glitter  of 
great  and  tranquil  waters,  the  liberal  friendship  of  the 
sun,  the  heavenly  conversation  of  robins  and  mocking 
birds  and  larks,  which  fill  my  days  with  delight ! 

But  if  I  commence  in  this  strain  I  shall  never  have 
done ;  and  I  am  writing  in  full  rebellion  against  the 
laws  now  of  force  over  the  land  of  Me  —  which  do 
not  yet  allow  me  to  use  the  few  by  reason  of  the 
infirmity  of  my  lung ;  yet  I  could  not  help  sending  you 
some  little  greeting  for  the  New  Year,  with  a  violet 
and  a  rose  which  please  find  herewithin.  The  violet  is 
for  purity,  —  and  I  wish  that  you  may  be  pure  all  this 
year ;  and  the  rose  is  for  love  —  and  I  'm  sure  I  shall 
love  you  all  the  year. 

We  are  quite  out  of  the  world  and  know  not  its 
doings.  The  stage  which  brings  our  mail  (twice  a  week 
only)  takes  three  days  to  reach  the  railroad  at  Gaines 
ville  ;  and  it  is  a  matter  of  from  nine  days  to  any  con 
ceivable  time  for  a  letter  to  reach  here  from  New  York. 
Nevertheless,  —  nay,  all  the  more  therefore,  —  send  me 
a  line  that  I  may  know  how  you  fare,  body  and  soul. 

I  received  a  check  for  fifteen  dollars  from  Mr.  Alden, 
Editor  "  Harper's,"  for  the  poem  you  sent  to  him  ;  and 
I  make  little  doubt  that  I  owe  its  acceptance  to  the 
circumstance  that  you  sent  it.  I  hear  of  an  "  Inter- 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  181 

national  Review,"  but  have  not  seen  any  copy  of  it :  do 
you  think  it  would  care  for  anything  like  the  enclosed  ? 
—  a  poem  which  I  have  endeavored  to  make  burn  as 
hotly  as,  yet  with  a  less  highly  colored  flame  than,  others 
of  mine.  If  you  do,  pray  direct  the  envelope ;  if  not, 
address  it  to  the  "  Galaxy,"  unless  you  think  that  inadvis 
able  :  in  which  last  event  keep  the  copy,  if  you  like. 

I  had  a  very  cordial  letter  from  Mr.  Eggleston  about 
my  volume  of  poems,  which  gave  me  pleasure. 

I  'm  sure  you  '11  be  glad  to  know  that  I  improve 
decidedly;  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  that  I  shall  be 
soon  at  work  again.  In  truth,  I  "  bubble  song "  con 
tinually  during  these  heavenly  days,  and  it  is  as  hard 
to  keep  me  from  the  pen  as  a  toper  from  his 
tipple. 

I  hope  Mrs.  Taylor  is  well,  and  beg  you  to  commend 
me  to  her ;  wherein  my  wife  very  heartily  joins  me,  as 
well  as  in  fair  messages  to  you.  I  wrote  you  several 
times  before  leaving  Philadelphia :  did  you  get  the 
letters  ? 

Your  faithful  friend,  S.  L. 

142  E.  i8TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK,  January  27,  1877. 
MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  I  have  been  away,  lecturing  and 
snow-bound,  cold  and  hungry,  among  the  drifts  of 
Central  New  York,  and  come  back  to  find  your  most 
welcome  letter,  written  on  my  birthday  (though  you 
did  n't  know  it !),  with  the  smell  of  the  violet  and  rose 
as  fresh  —  for  about  five  minutes  —  as  when  you  gathered 
them.  Something  of  the  endless  summer  of  Tampa 
came  to  me  in  your  letter,  and  I  am  still  full  of  the 
longing  to  be  beside  those  blue  waters  and  where  "  im 
dunken  Land  die  Gold-Orangen  gliihn." 


1 82  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Last  night  I  spent  with  Stedman  and  Dudley  Buck, 
and  we  talked  much  of  you.  Buck  played  the  accom 
paniment,  and  Mr.  Brown  (a  barytone)  sang  your  last 
song  in  "Scribner's" — "The  Cleopatra-night;"  so 
that  I  have  heard  it  before  you  !  It  is  simply  superb. 

I  shall  send  your  poem  immediately  to  the  "  Galaxy." 
The  "  International  Review"  is  a  mean  concern,  —  pub 
lishes  little  poetry,  pays  its  authors  next  to  nothing, 
and  has  n't  much  circulation.  I  know  Church  of  the 
"  Galaxy,"  and  am  free  to  ask  him,  not  only  to  publish 
the  poem,  but  also  to  pay  you  properly.  If  I  see  him 
to-night  at  the  Century  I  can  settle  the  matter  in  two 
minutes.  If  you  have  anything  more,  of  a  simple, 
melodious  quality,  send  it  to  me,  and  I  'm  much  mis 
taken  if  I  can't  get  it  into  the  "  Atlantic."  Your  song 
in  "  Scribner's  "  was  much  copied.  In  the  "  New  Library 
of  Song,"  to  which  Bryant's  name  is  attached  as  editor,  — 
though  he  does  n't  edit  it  much,  —  your  Cantata  is  pub 
lished  beside  Whittier's  Hymn  and  my  Ode.  So  pluck 
up  heart,  and  don't  be  discouraged !  We  must  all 
wait. 

I  wish  I  had  time  to  send  you  the  MSS.  of  two 
late  poems  I  have  written,  —  "  An  Assyrian  Chant  "  and 
"Peach-Blossom."  I  have  two  or  three  more  waiting 
for  the  lucky  hour  —  but,  Alas  !  Ah  me  !  Eheu  !  Ay  de 
mi !  —  I  am  ground  to  the  dust  with  work  and  worry. 
I  live  from  day  to  day,  on  the  verge  of  physical  prostra 
tion.  Nothing  saves  me  but  8  to  10  hours  of  death 
like  sleep,  every  night.  Of  course  everything  must  wait 
—  my  "  Life  of  Goethe,"  my  lyrical  drama,  everything 
that  is  solely  and  dearly  mine. 

You  missed  a  letter  I  sent  to  Baltimore.  I  called  at 
your  address  there,  saw  Hamerik,  and  finally  got  your 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  183 

last  note  from  Philadelphia  after  you  left.  As  I  did  n't 
know  your  address,  I  meant  to  write  to  Peacock ;  and 
you  must  pardon  my  seeming  neglect.  Buck  told  me 
last  night  he  had  recently  written  to  you  at  West 
Chester  !  I  gave  him  your  address,  and  he  will  write  at 
once.  I  am  to  hammer  out  some  sort  of  a  song  for  him  : 
may  the  Lord  help  me  to  something  musical !  Did  you 
see  my  "  Matin-Song  "  in  the  January  "  Atlantic  "  ?  — 
Paine's  music. 

Here  's  the  end  of  the  sheet,  and  I  must  close,  for  I 
have  not  the  time  to  fill  another.  Do  write  often,  but 
only  when  you  are  allowed.  Your  condition  makes  me 
very  anxious,  for  you  have  the  truest  right  to  life  and 
strength.  Pray  Heaven  the  trouble  is  only  temporary  ! < 
My  wife  joins  me  in  love  to  yours  and  you. 

Ever  affectionately,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

142  E.  i8TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK,  February  5,  1877. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER, — I  enclose  Sheldon  &  Co.'s 
("Galaxy")  check  for  $25,  for  your  "  Beethoven."  I 
tried  hard  to  get  $40  for  it,  but  failed.  I  have  also 
carefully  read  the  proof,  and  was  much  tempted  to 
change  a  word  —  "  The  slanders  told  by  sickly  eyes  "  — 
but  it  seemed  too  great  a  liberty.  However,  I  did  make 
one  or  two  necessary  changes  in  punctuation. 

I  saw  Buck  again,  six  days  ago.  He  had  just  received 
a  letter  from  you,  saying  you  are  much  better,  —  which  I 
was  heartily  glad  to  hear.  I  wish  you  could  have  been 
here  Saturday  evening  to  hear  Wagner's  "  Gotterdam- 
merung  "  —  not  that  /  liked  it !  I  'm  through  with  my 
outside  lecturing,  —  we  have  soft  airs,  and  clear  spring 
skies,  and  all  my  fatigues  are  falling  off  me  like  a  snake's 
old  skin.  I  hope  to  come  out  (poetically)  in  new  and 


1 84  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

shining  scales.  Send  me  a  poem  for  the  "Atlantic." 
Pardon  haste :  we  both  greet  you  both. 

Ever  faithfully,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

TAMPA,  FLA.,  February  7,  1877. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  Your  letter  bringing  many 
pleasant  words,  came  on  my  birthday :  which  I  consider 
a  fair  reciprocation  for  mine,  written  (as  you  tell  me) 
on  yours.  My  wife  had  managed  to  arrange  my  room, 
with  the  help  of  some  cunning  female  friends,  without 
my  knowledge ;  and  when  I  awoke  in  the  morning  I 
found  myself  in  the  midst  of  a  very  brave  array  of  flow 
ers  ;  during  the  day  our  apartment  was  further  hung 
with  wreaths  of  gray  moss,  bamboo  vines,  and  fragrant 
spruce  pine  tassels,  to  such  a  degree  that  I  felt  like  a 
whole  Sunday-school  celebration  all  by  myself;  and  in 
the  afternoon  among  a  lot  of  pleasant  mail  matter  came 
your  letter. 

I  was  never  able  to  stay  angry  in  my  life;  and  I 

should  meet  without  ever  letting  him  know  how 

much  pain  he  had  given  me.  ...  It  only  increased  the 
pain  of  the  wound  that  it  was  given  in  this  advisory  way 
which  would  have  made  me  seem  very  truculent  to  resent 
it ;  and  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  get  off  into  some 
brake  of  silence,  like  a  deer  with  a  shot  in  the  flank,  and 
lick  mine  own  wound.  This  seems  extravagant ;  but  it 
is  not,  compared  with  the  real  suffering :  it  was  such  a 
fall  for  my  vanity  to  think  that  any  human  being  could 
have  dreamed  me  capable  of  such  a  thought,  after 
having  seen  me  twice  ! 

Voila  tout.  As  for  forgiveness :  the  summer  and  the 
silence  here  have  been  very  medicinal  to  me  :  since  I 
have  been  here  I  Ve  thought  over  the  few  people  that 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  185 

ever  wronged  me,  and  I  don't  find  in  my  heart  the  least 
speck  of  hard  feeling  against  anybody  in  the  world. 

Pray  keep  the  enclosed  little  poem,  and  send  it  any 
where  where  you  think  it  might  be  accepted.  I  should 
mention  that  Scribner's,  Harper's,  and  Lippincott's,  each, 
has  a  poem  of  mine  on  hand  (and  you  '11  care  to  hear 
that  Scribner's  paid  me  twice  as  much  as  ever  before 
for  the  last  one,  bought  a  couple  of  weeks  ago) .  Don't 
charge  your  mind  with  it,  and  pray  don't  be  at  the 
trouble  of  writing  any  recommendations,  or  the  like.  I 
cannot  bear  to  think  of  taking  your  time. 

My  wife  is  trying  to  get  off  a  small  box  of  orange  blos 
soms  to  Mrs.  Taylor  by  this  mail,  but  she  may  have  to 
wait  over  until  the  next. 

Ha^je  you  seen  a  somewhat  elaborate  notice  of  me  in 
the  "Graphic  "  by  Orpheus  C.  Kerr? 

I  should  like  to  see  your  "  Assyrian  Chant  "  and  spe 
cially  "Peach-Blossom."  If  you  could  only  see  the 
plum-trees,  the  roses,  the  orange-blossoms,  here  ! 

God  bless  you. 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 

TAMPA,  FLA.,  February  n,  1877. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  In  the  poem  I  've  just  sent 
you  —  "  The  Bee  "  —  it  occurs  to  me  that  I  have  care 
lessly  used  the  pronoun  "  him  "  referring  to  the  bee,  — 
forgetting  that,  although  the  worker-bees  were  formerly 
thought  to  be  sexless,  they  have  recently  been  found  to 
be  imperfectly  developed  females.  Pray  let  me  trouble 
you  therefore  to  substitute  "its"  for  "his"  in  the  six 
teenth  line  from  the  beginning, 

"  Thrust  up  its  sad-gold  body  lustily  "*; 


1 86  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

and  also  "it"  for  "him"  in  the  thirty-sixth  line  from 
the  beginning, 

"  Perceived  it  poising  o'er  a  fresh  new  cup." 

I  am  too  in  some  little  doubt  about  the  words  "  on  his 
wings"  six  lines  further  on  from  the  last  quoted  :  ("He 
hath  a  sense  of  pollen  on  his  wings.")  While  I  know 
that  the  pollen  used  by  the  bee  for  food  is  carried  in  the 
"  pollen-baskets  "  of  the  legs,  I  am  not  sure  whether 
any  of  the  pollen  used  in  cross-fertilization  is  carried  on 
the  wings,  my  impression  is  that  it  mostly  adheres  to  the 
body.  Perhaps  therefore  it  would  be  better  to  substitute 
for  this  line  the  following  : 

"  Some  sense  of  pollen  every  poet  brings," 
(Of  pollen  for  to  make  thee  fruitful,  etc.,  etc.) 

To  how  many  sins  one  sin  leadeth  ...  is  shown  in 
all  this  trouble  I  'm  giving  you  in  consequence  of  failing 
to  be  strictly  accurate  at  first. 

I  write  in  great  haste,  to  save  a  mail. 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 

TAMPA,  FLA.,  February  25,  1877. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  Yours  with  the  "  Galaxy " 
check  came  safely,  bringing  me  heaviness  of  purse  and 
lightness  of  heart,  —  for  both  of  which  pray  hold  your 
self  thanked. 

About  the  piece  for  the  ,  I  am  afflicted  with 

doubts  which  I  find  myself  unable  to  solve.  Once  in 
my  early  pleiocene  epoch,  before  the  Man  had  appeared 
in  any  of  my  formations  to  supplant  the  crude  monsters 

of  earlier  periods,  I  sent  "Corn"  to  Mr. ;  and, 

upon  his  refusing  it,  I  tried,  some  time  afterwards,  a 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  187 

couple  of  sonnets,  accompanied  by  a  note  asking  (poor 
green  goose  that  I  was  !  as  if  an  editor  had  time  for 
such  things,  —  but  I  really  knew  no  better)  if  he  would 
not  do  me  the  favor  to  point  out  in  these  a  certain 
"mysticism"  of  which  he  had  complained  in  "Corn." 
This  he  did  not  answer :  only  returning  the  two  poor 
little  sonnets  with  the  usual  printed  refusal. 

This  looked  so  much  like  a  pointed  invitation  to  me 
to  let  him  alone  that  I  have  never  had  the  courage  to 
trouble  him  since.  I  thought  his  treatment  very  cold  at 

that  time,  and  wrote  so,  once,  to  ,  who  had  been 

friends  of  mine.  Of  course  I  now  see  how  absurdly 
callow  and  unreasonable  were  my  views  then ;  but  this 
does  not  diminish  the  mortification  with  which  I  remem 
ber  the  ignominious  termination  of  my  efforts  in  that 
direction ;  and  while  I  do  not  retain  the  least  spark  of 

feeling  against  Mr. ,  I  do  not  feel  at  all  sure  but  he 

may  remember  me  as  an  absurd  person  whom  he  was 
obliged  to  rebuff  by  silence.  What  would  you  do  ?  I'm 
sure  I  do  not  want  to  be  finical. 

We  got  off  some  orange-blossoms  to  Mrs.  Taylor  last 
week,  but  I  much  doubt  if  the  buds  will  open  on  the 
way,  according  to  my  wife's  expectation.  They  have 
made  a  very  pretty  heaven  indeed  for  the  bees  and  for 
us  during  the  last  two  weeks. 

I  have  occasional  backsets,  due  to  the  warm  climate ; 
but  there  is  now  no  doubt  the  lung  is  healing  rapidly, 
and  I  am  much  better.  I  hope  your  project  for  the 
German  lectures  (which  I  saw  announced  in  the  "  Even 
ing  Post")  has  been  successful.  What  a  foolish  noise  is 
this  about  "  Deirdre  "  !  It  is  just  a  poor  dull  piece  of 
orthodox  verse.  I  do  not  find  an  idea  in  it,  from  begin 
ning  to  end ;  and  the  imitations  of  Homer's  ideas  affect 


1 88  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

me  unpleasantly.  Moreover  the  story  is  too  little  for  an 
epic.  There  is  n't  wind  enough  for  so  much  canvas : 
whereby  the  latter  is  pot-bellied,  and  bags  absurdly. 

My  wife  joins  me  in  affectionate  messages  to  you  and 
Mrs.  Taylor.  I  wish  I  could  gossip  a  little;  but  mine 
infirmity  of  the  pen-arm  saith,  Forbear. 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 

TAMPA,  March  4,  1877. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR:  I  earnestly  hope  you'll  like 
this  :  it  is  written  with  a  very  full  heart ! 1  I  wanted  to 
say  all  manner  of  fair  things  about  you,  but  I  was  so 
intensely  afraid  of  appearing  to  plaster  you,  —  that  I 
finally  squeezed  them  all  into  one  line, 

"  In  soul  and  stature  larger  than  thy  kind," 

which  in  truth  has  kept  saying  itself  over  within  me  ever 
since  it  was  written,  until  I  have  come  to  take  infinite 
satisfaction  in  it. 

If  you  like  this  well  enough  to  be  willing  that  I  should 
print  it,  pray  give  me  a  hint  in  what  direction  I  had  bet 
ter  send  it, —  I  mean,  where  you  would  best  like  it  to 
appear. 

I  have  just  seen  the  "  Beethoven  "  in  the  "  Galaxy." 
A  queer  mistake  in  punctuation  occurs  when  it  says : 

"  When  luminous  lightnings  blindly  strike  ; 
The  sailor  praying  on  his  knees 
Along  with  him  that 's  cursing  God  "  etc. 

The  semicolon  marked  is  an  error :  the  verb  "  strike  " 
governs  "The  sailor,"  etc.  in  the  following  line;  the 
luminous  lightnings  blindly  strike  (not  only)  the  sailor 
praying,  etc.,  but  also  the  sailor  cursing,  etc.  I  speak  of 

1  "  Under  the  Cedarcroft  Chestnut." 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  189 

it  as  a  queer  error  because  I  am  amused  to  see  that  a 
sort  of  dim  sense  may  be  evolved  out  of  it  even  as  it 
stands.  On  seeing  the  poem  in  print,  I  find  it  faulty : 
there  's  too  much  matter  in  it ;  it  is  like  reading  the 
dictionary  —  the  meanings  presently  become  confused, 
not  because  of  any  lack  of  distinctness  in  each  one,  but 
simply  because  of  the  numerous  and  differing  specifica 
tions  of  ideas. 

Did  you  get  a  letter  from  me  enclosing  a  poem  called 
"The  Bee"? 

But  I  must  stop  writing.     God  bless  you. 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 

NEW  YORK,  March  12,  1877. 
(  You  know  the  address!) 

MY  DEAR  LANII&:  Drudgery,  drudgery,  drudgery! 
What  else  can  I  say?  Does  not  that  explain  all?  Two 
courses  of  twelve  lectures  on  German  Literature  here  and 
at  Brooklyn,  daily  work  on  the  "Tribune,"  magazine 
articles  (one  dismally  delayed),  interruptions  of  all  sorts, 
—  and  just  as  much  conscience  as  you  may  imagine 
pressing  upon  me  to  write  to  you  and  other  friends  ! 
The  fact  is,  I  am  so  weary,  fagged,  with  sore  spots  under 
the  collar-bone,  and  all  sorts  of  indescribable  symptoms 
which  betoken  lessened  vitality,  that  I  must  piteously 
beg  you  to  grant  me  much  allowance. 

I  got   your  second  letter  about  "The  Bee"  just  in 

time,  for  I  had  meant  to  send  it   to   that  very 

morning.  What  you  said  made  me  pause  for  a  few 
days;  but  I  have  at  last  decided  to  send  it  none  the 
less,  and  it  will  go  to-morrow  morning  !  I  see  no  other 
place  for  it.  The  poem  is  very  charming.  I  shall  make 
the  changes  you  desire,  although  je  rfen  vois  pas  la  tie- 


190  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

cessit/.  You  see,  I  admit  your  full  right ;  but  not  one 
man  in  10,000,000  will  know  enough  about  bees  to 
notice  any  scientific  mistake.  I  must  send  you  a  long 
magazine  article  I  have  just  written  on  Tennyson  to  illus 
trate  the  fault  of  over-attention  to  details.  You  are 
right  about  the  "  Beethoven,"  —  it  is  too  crowded, 
and  the  ideas  are  not  clearly  expressed.  I  must  say 
frankly  ("  which  "  should  not)  that  the  Chestnut- tree  is 
very  fine  :  only  do  say  something  else  instead  of  "  colic." 
Three  hundred  years  ago  a  poet  could  say  that ;  not 
now.  And  I  would  not  put  the  stanzas  in  italic :  it  is  so 
far  from  the  fashion  of  the  day,  that  people  will  think  it 
equivalent  to  the  author  saying,  "  Mark  how  fine  this 
is  !  "  We  must  yield  something  to  the  custom,  just  as 
we  wear  horrid  stove-pipe  hats.  I  return  it,  because,  as 
you  well  understand,  /  can't  offer  it  anywhere ;  yet  I  am 
sure  Scribner  would  publish  it.  Why  not  change  the 
title  to  "The  Chestnut-Tree  at  (or  of )  Cedarcroft"? 
It  seems  a  little  less  personal.  The  line  you  mention  is 
fine,  apart  from  mine  own  interest  in  it,  —  too  good  as 
applied  to  me.  Somehow  I  feel  as  if  such  things  might 
be  said  after  a  man  is  dead,  hardly  while  he  is  living. 
But  that  you  feel  impelled  to  say  it  now,  gives  me  a 
feeling  of  dissolving  warmth  about  the  heart.  You  must 
not  think,  my  dear  friend,  that  simply  because  I  recog 
nize  your  genius  and  character,  and  the  purity  of  the 
aims  of  both,  that  I  confer  any  obligation  on  you  ! 
From  you,  and  all  like  you,  few  as  they  are,  I  draw  my 
own  encouragement  for  that  work  of  mine  which  I  think 
may  possibly  live. 

My  wife  wrote  to  Mrs.  Lanier  to-day,  and  I  meant  to 
have  enclosed  this ;  but  I  hope  it  won't  be  long  behind. 
I  shall  get  through  my  lectures  about  the  loth  of  April, 


Letters  between  Two  Poets          191 

and  if  I  still  feel  as  worn  and  weary  as  now,  may  go 
South  for  a  fortnight,  and  as  far  as  Florida.  Where 
shall  you  be  then?  In  Macon?  It 's  all  uncertain,  but 
if  I  go  I  '11  stop  and  see  you.  Don't  count  on  this  :  it 's 
a  private  hope  of  mine,  and  may  be  frustrated. 

I  have  a  great  many  more  things  to  say,  but  you  '11 
pardon  me.  I  am  deadly  tired,  and  hardly  know  how 
I  Ve  kept  up  the  past  year  without  breaking  down 
utterly.  But  I  must  at  least  tell  you  how  glad  I  am 
always  to  hear  from  you,  —  how  I  pray  for  your  restora 
tion  to  enough  of  health  to  do  the  work  God  meant  you 

to  do. 

Ever  faithfully  and  affectionately  your  friend, 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

TAMPA,  FLA.,  March  29,  1877. 

DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  I  cut  this  slip  out  of  an  "  Even 
ing  Post "  which  comes  in  the  same  mail  with  your  letter 
of  the  1 2th.  Both  tell  the  same  story:  that  you  are 
overworked. 

For  this  reason  I  rejoice  to  learn  that  you  think  of 
running  away  for  a  little  while  from  New  York,  and  — 
without  waiting  to  answer  your  letter  —  I  write  a  line  by 
return  mail  to  say  that  at  the  time  you  mention  I  will 
be  in  Brunswick,  Ga.  There  is  a  route  to  Florida  — 
perhaps  the  quickest  and  pleasantest  —  which  passes 
through  Brunswick.  It  is  called  the  "Cumberland 
Route "  (from  passing  by  Cumberland  Island,  on  the 
Georgia  coast,  between  Brunswick  and  Fernandina, 
Fla.),  and  is  the  one  by  which  I  travelled  last  time. 
You  take  a  sleeping-car  at  New  York  which  brings 
you  through  to  Danville,  Va. ;  there  you  find  another 
sleeping-car  which  brings  you  all  the  way  to  Brunswick 


192  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

without  change.  At  Brunswick  you  take  a  steamer  to 
Fernandina,  forty-five  miles,  and  at  Fernandina  cars 
for  Jacksonville,  sixty-seven  miles.  If  you  are  coming 
to  Florida,  you  would  probably  be  best  pleased  at  St. 
Augustine.  Pray  write  me  a  line  when  you  receive  this, 
telling  me  whether  you  '11  come  through  Brunswick.  My 
address  henceforth  is  "  Care  of  Chas.  Day,  Brunswick, 
Ga."  We  leave  here  for  that  place  on  the  5th  of  April. 
Your  friend,  S.  L. 

142  E.  i8TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK,  April  15,  1877. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  I  am  very  glad  to  get  yours  of 
March  2pth,  from  which  I  infer  (though  you  don't 
say  so)  that  you  must  be  better.  Since  my  two  lecture 
courses  are  over,  and  I  have  stopped  magazine  work,  I 
am  getting  fresher  and  stronger,  and  have  decided  to 
go  to  Cedarcroft  instead  of  Florida !  This  will  be 
better ;  for  a  single  week  in  Florida,  balanced  by  another 
week  of  hard  travel,  would  not  do  me  much  good. 
Besides,  the  house  at  Cedarcroft  is  being  thoroughly 
repaired  and  I  must  have  an  eye  to  the  work. 

returned  "The  Bee"  along  with  my  "Assyrian 

Night  Song,"  having  no  mind  for  either.  But  for  this 
fact,  I  should  regret  having  sent  yours.  I  have  several 
times  half  resolved  never  to  send  him  another  poem  ;  but 
now  I  wholly  resolve.  He  has  personal  whim  in  place  of 

clear  critical  judgment.  I  shall  next  try with  a 

better  hope  of  success. 

Pray  let  me  know  what  your  plans  are  —  especially 
what  your  physical  condition  is,  —  where  you  expect  to 
pass  the  summer,  etc.  I  must  go  to  Cornell  University 
for  ten  days  in  May  —  shall  work  here  until  July  ist, 
then  take  a  holiday  for  July  and  August,  spending  the 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  193 

former  month  at  the  White  Sulphur,  Va.  My  over-work 
comes  solely  from  the  necessity  of  providing  means 
for  this  necessary  summer  rest.  But  now  the  end  is 
secured,  and  I  shall  take  life  more  easily. 

There  's  no  literary  news  to  send.  My  wife  joins  me 
in  friendliest  greetings  to  yours. 

Ever  faithfully,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

BRUNSWICK,  GA.,  April  26,  1877. 

DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  Pray  don't  trouble  to  send 

"The  Bee  "to  " 's."  I  haven't  the  least  idea 

of  letting  you  act  as  poem- broker  for  me  any  longer. 
I  'm  now  getting  well  enough  to  write  a  little,  and 
May  (that 's  my  wife)  is  becoming  a  capital  secretary. 

If  you  should  not  have  sent  off  "  The  Bee  "  before  this 
reaches  you,  I  '11  trouble  you  to  enclose  it  to  me  :  I  've 
kept  no  copy,  and  am  not  sure  that  I  remember  it  exactly. 

Have  you  happened  to  see  the  illustrations  to  an 
extravaganza  of  mine  (a  sort  of  story  which  one  "  makes 
up  as  he  goes  along,"  to  a  lot  of  importunate  youngsters) 
in  the  May  number  of  "  St.  Nicholas  "  ?  1  They  seem  to 
me,  who  am  but  little  of  a  critic  however  in  such  matters, 
to  be  very  charming.  Mrs.  Dodge  appears  not  to  have 
received  the  proof-sheets,  which  I  returned  from  Tampa, 
in  time :  for  in  them  I  carefully  corrected  some  very 
disagreeable  repetitions,  and  faults  of  punctuation,  which 
appear  in  the  publication. 

I  believe  there  is  a  little  scrap  of  a  poem  of  mine  in 
"  Scribner's  "  for  May,  but  I  have  n't  seen  it. 

I  take  real  delight  in  thinking  of  you  at  Cedarcroft 
among  the  leaves.  How  fares  my  Master,  the  Chestnut- 
tree  ?  If  you  only  had  there  the  infinite  sweetness  of 

1  "  A  Fairy  Tale  for  Grown  People." 
'3 


194  Letters  of  .Sidney  Lanier 

Spring,  which  is  now  in  full  leaf  and  overflowing  song 
all  about  us  here !  I  have  at  command  a  springy 
mare,  with  ankles  like  a  Spanish  girl's,  upon  whose 
back  I  go  darting  through  the  green  overgrown  wood- 
paths  like  a  thrasher  about  his  thicket.  The  whole 
air  seems  full  of  fecundity :  as  I  ride,  I  'm  like  one  of 
those  insects  that  are  fertilized  on  the  wing,  —  every 
leaf  that  I  brush  against  breeds  a  poem.  God  help  the 
world  when  this  now-hatching  brood  of  my  Ephemerae 
shall  take  flight  and  darken  the  air. 

After  the  3d  of  May  my  address  will  be  "Macon, 
Ga."  We  will  spend  a  month  there.  As  for  further 
plans,  —  about  which  you  kindly  ask,  —  they  will  depend 
entirely  on  my  state  of  health  at  the  end  of  May.  I 
hope  to  be  in  New  York  during  June  :  —  but  you  will  be 
informed  of  my  motions. 

Tell  Mrs.  Taylor  I  wish  we  could  send  her  a  rose 
from  the  little  garden  of  the  house  where  we  sojourn  : 
though  we  don't  dare  to  pick  one  often,  by  reason 
that  a  mocking-bird  is  sitting  on  her  eggs  in  the 
spiraea-bush,  and  we  shrink  from  disturbing  the  tran 
quillity  of  her  mind  at  this  interesting  period. 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK,  May  9,  1877. 
MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  I  return  your  "  Bee "  with  a 
sense  of  discouragement  at  my  inability  to  find  a  place 
for  it.  I  went  to  "  Harper's,"  meaning  to  read  it  aloud 
to  Alden,  but  did  n't  find  him.  I  thought  I  could  thus 
make  more  impression,  and  get  a  prompt  decision.  I 
read  it  the  other  day  to  Boker,  who  was  here,  and  he 

said   the does  n't   have   more  than   two   as   good 

poems  in  a  year. 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  195 

I  might  have  been  successful,  could  I  have  taken 
more  time.  But  I  have  been  forced  to  write  six  long 
art  criticisms  on  the  Exhibition,  and  you've  no  idea 
how  exhausting  such  work  is.  In  fact,  it  is  only  within 
two  days  that  I  begin  to  feel  a  little  lifting  of  the  strain 
upon  me,  and  wake  up  o'  mornings  with  a  sense  of  being 
moderately  refreshed  by  sleep.  All  this  work  has  been 
inevitable,  owing  to  necessity  of  meeting  some  unusual 
expenses  this  spring.  But  I  have  laid  up  enough  for 
two  months  of  summer  idleness,  for  which  I  pant  as 
the  hart  for  the  water-brooks  —  and  so  can  only  be 
thankful. 

In  your  last  letters  you  say  very  little  about  your 
physical  condition.  I  should  like  to  hear  that  you  are 
getting  back  strength,  and  overcoming,  no  matter  how 
slowly,  the  persistent  trouble.  To  be  sure,  your  hint  of 
poetic  activity  is  an  encouraging  sign,  and  I  hope  it  has 
its  source  in  more  vigorous  blood. 

As  for  me,  I  do  nothing  but  "  loaf  and  invite  my  soul," 
when  I  am  not  at  work.  My  soul  does  n't  respond 
to  the  invitation,  as  yet.  But  on  the  2oth  I  go  to 
Cornell  University  to  give  six  lectures  to  the  students, 
and  shall  have  10  days  idlesse.  Perhaps  something  may 
come  of  it. 

Now  I  must  close  in  a  hurry,  hearing  a  visitor  an 
nounced.  My  wife  joins  me  in  the  very  kindest  regards 
to  yours. 

Ever  faithfully,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

MACON,  GA.,  May  25,  1877. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  Yours  with  the  "  Bee "  — 
my  poor  little  bee,  my  humblest  of  humble-bees  —  came 
to  me  here. 


196  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Within  two  weeks  from  now  I  hope  to  see  you,  and 
the  anticipation  gives  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure.  I 
seem  to  be  fairly  on  the  highroad  to  health  —  almost 
within  the  boundaries,  indeed,  of  that  most  lovely 
state  —  and  am  quite  agog  with  all  manner  of  matters 
about  many  of  which  I  desire  greatly  to  talk  with 
you.  The  talk  here  is  of  the  advance  in  corn,  and 
of  the  failure  of  our  City  Bank;  and,  so  far  as  con 
cerns  any  man  I  have  yet  conversed  with,  there  is 
absolutely  nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  or  the  waters 
under  the  earth  but  corn  and  the  City  Bank.  Perhaps, 
if  I  had  several  thousand  bushels  of  the  former,  or  a 
large  deposit  in  the  latter,  these  topics  might  interest 
me  more.  But  I  haven't;  and  when  I  think  how  I 
shall  enjoy  tackling  you  about  something  or  other  — 
say  Emerson,  whom  I  have  been  reading  all  the  winter, 
and  who  gives  me  immeasurable  delight  because  he 
does  not  propound  to  me  disagreeable  systems  and 
hideous  creeds  but  simply  walks  along  high  and  bright 
ways  where  one  loves  to  go  with  him  —  then  I  am 
ready  to  praise  God  for  the  circumstance  that  if  corn 
were  a  dollar  a  bushel  I  could  not  with  my  present 
finances  buy  a  lunch  for  a  pony. 

I  will  be  here  until  I  start  Northward,  where  you 
may  address  me  if  you  should  have  occasion  to  write 
meantime. 

My  wife  would  send  cordial  greetings  to  you  and  Mrs. 
Taylor  if  she  knew  I  was  writing.  God  bless  you. 

Your  friend,  S.  L. 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  Just  back  from  giving  six  lectures 
at  Cornell  University,  and  your  letter  from  Macon  awaits 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  197 

me.     It  is  most  welcome,  for  at  last  you  give  me  a  word 
about  your  physical  state,  and  a  good  word  it  is. 

I  can't  write  much,  for  there  is  a  pile  of  unanswered 
letters  at  my  left  hand.  We  shall  be  here  until  July  ist ; 
then  we  go  directly  to  the  White  Sulphur  Springs  for  a 
month,  and  shall  divide  August  between  Cedarcroft  and 
a  visit  to  some  friends  at  Newport.  I  long  with  inex 
pressible  longing  for  the  release  from  work ;  for  although 
somewhat  of  the  work  seems  to  tell  —  to  give  me  a  slight 
increase  of  influence  in  literary  circles  — it  is  not  what  I 
would  choose  to  do,  were  I  free. 

As  you  say  "  two  weeks  from  now,"  I  count  on  seeing 
you  here  soon.  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you  taking 
my  thin  claret  and  cheap  cigars  again,  and  to  talk  over 
your  new  plans  —  for  I  suppose  they  are  new.  I  also 
need  a  change  in  my  way  of  living,  and  a  few  possibili 
ties  have  lately  turned  up.  We  all  need  to  live  at  least 
25  years  longer,  to  get  our  reward.  But  mine  as  yet  is 
only  half  earned ;  all  I  care  for  is  leisure  to  labor.  My 
wife  joins  in  most  cordial  greetings  to  you.  Report 
yourself  here  as  soon  as  you  arrive,  and  pardon  this 
hurried  scrawl ! 

Best  regards  to  your  father. 

Always  faithfully,         BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

3315  BARING  ST.,  PHILADELPHIA,  PA., 
/w/j/9,   1877. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR:  I  am  merely  writing  a  line 
to  enclose  the  two  slips  which  you  will  find  herein,  and 
which  I  thought  might  interest  you  apropos  of  what 
you  were  telling  me  the  other  day.  The  "  Philadelphia 
Ledger,"  from  which  the  slip  of  July  yth  is  cut,  is  so 
reliable  in  these  matters  that  I  suppose  there  can  be  no 


198  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

doubt  of  the  substantial  fact  as  therein  stated,  though 
it  seems  wonderful  that  the  originators  of  such  a  move 
ment  should  not  have  been  immediately  struck  with  the 
propriety  of  sending  the  translator  of  Goethe  to  Germany 
instead  of  to  Russia  or  to  Belgium. 

But  isn't  Russia  or  Belgium  a  somewhat  queer  alterna 
tion  :  something  like  offering  a  man  either  the  Presi 
dency  of  the  United  States  or  the  Postmastership  of 
Kennett  Square  ? 

I  sent  you  to-day  a  Boston  magazine  containing  a 
portrait  of  me  which  I  think  will  amuse  you, —  particu 
larly  the  smutched  one  accompanying  the  biographical 
sketch  inside.  This,  this  is  Fame :  to  have  your 
"  visnomy  "  transformed  into  that  of  a  keen  blue-nosed 
New  England  manufacturer  of  shoe-pegs. 

I  have  not  often  seen  anything  more  tragic  than  my 
wife's  indignation  over  this  wood-cut ;  nor  have  I  suc 
ceeded  in  allaying  her  resentment  by  my  sympathetic 
assurance  that  I  think  it  the  unkindest  cut  of  all. 
'  My  wife  joins  me  in  friendly  messages  to  you  both. 
With  earnest  wishes  that  you  may  be  drawing  strength 
from  the  dear  mountains,  as  it  were  from  the  very  breasts 
and  big  nipples  of  our  Mother  Earth, 

Faithfully  your  friend,  S.  L. 

WHITE  SULPHUR  SPRINGS,  V A.,  July  n,  1877. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  Thanks  for  your  letter  and  the 
magazine.  In  the  latter  you  fare  about  as  well  as  the 
rest  of  us  :  it  is  something  we  must  get  used  to.  I  wish 
you  could  see  some  of  my  former  villainous  faces ;  they 
would  show  you  that  there  is  a  worse  deep  than  you 
have  yet  reached. 

As  for  the  mission,  I  think  "  Belgium  "  must  be  a  mis- 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  199 

take  for  "Berlin."  It  would  be  singular  to  offer  the 
choice  of  a  first  or  a  fourth  rate  place  !  In  any  case 
the  German  mission  is  the  only  one  I  am  able  to  take  j 
and  if  it  is  not  offered,  I  '11  even  stay  at  home.  But  the 
matter  ought  to  be  decided  soon :  it  disquiets  me  a 
little,  in  spite  of  my  best  will  not  to  think  about  the 
matter. 

This  is  the  most  complete  nest  of  repose  I  have  yet 
found  in  America.  The  air,  the  quiet,  the  society  are 
just  what  I  need  :  I  drink  the  water  and  bathe,  and  am 
feeling  like  a  new  man.  But,  oh  !  how  supremely  lazy  I 
am  !  It 's  an  effort  even  to  write  a  letter  to  a  friend.  I 
walk  half  a  mile,  sit  down  under  a  tree,  look  at  the  rich 
colors  of  the  wooded  mountains,  and  am  animally  happy. 
I  only  write  poems  in  dreams,  and  here  's  a  line  which 
came  to  me  thus,  the  other  night : 

The  ship  sails  true  because  the  seas  are  wide. 

Let  me  break  off  here.  This  indolence  (I  foresee) 
will  breed  fresh  activity ;  but  I  don't  want  to  think  of 
that  now.  My  wife  joins  me  in  cordial  greeting  to 
yours.  Remember  me  to  Peacock  and  all  other  good 
friends. 

Ever  faithfully,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

We  live  next  door  to  ex-Governor  Walker. 

PHILADELPHIA,  PA.,/«/J>  28,  1877. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  I  send  a  line  to  say  that  we 
will  move,  on  the  day  after  to-morrow,  to  Mrs.  Caleb 
Brinton's,  about  a  half  mile  from  Chadd's  Ford,  where  we 
expect  to  spend  the  next  two  months.  We  are  delighted 
with  the  place,  which  my  wife  and  I  have  visited  and 
inspected ;  and  we  hope  that  when  you  return  to  Cedar- 


2oo  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

croft  you  will  bless  us  with  the  light  of  your  counte 
nance.     My  address  will  be  "  Chadd's  Ford." 

I  have  n't  time  to  write. 

My  wife  unites  her  cordial  salutation  with  mine  to 
you  and  all  your  house. 

Faithfully  yours,  S.  L. 

KENNETT  SQUARE,  PA.,  August  n,  1877. 
MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  Pardon  me  over  and  over  again 
for  not  writing.  I  have  been  at  home  a  week  from  the 
White  Sulphur,  and  meant  to  write  at  once ;  but  family 
changes  are  going  on  —  movings,  re-arrangements,  etc. 
—  which  occupied  my  mind,  and  made  it  difficult  for  me 
to  know  when  to  ask  any  friend  to  come.  I  expect  to 
be  at  home  all  the  coming  week,  except  Monday  and 
possibly  Thursday.  Can't  you  come  up  ?  I  would  go  to 
see  you,  but  have  only  a  little  time  here,  and  there  are 
many  small  affairs  which  claim  my  attention.  I  have 
been  resting  utterly  for  six  weeks,  and  am  greatly  fresher 
in  mind  and  body.  Must  be  brief  to-day,  for  the  inevi 
table  worries  find  me  out  and  follow  me.  Write  a  line  to 
let  me  know  when  you  can  come ;  the  R.  R.  makes 
it  easy. 

Ever  faithfully,  B.  T. 

CHADD'S  FORD,  PA.,  August  26,  1877. 

DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  Your  letter  came  just  as  I  was 
starting  for  New  York  on  a  business  matter  which  has 
occupied  me  quite  closely  ever  since.  I  'm  now  again  at 
home,  however,  and  hope  to  be  at  comparative  leisure 
for  a  week  or  so. 

I  should  have  been  inclined  to  think  you  a  very  shabby 
Colossus,  indeed  —  to  stay  away  for  a  week  when  there 
were  so  many  Rhodes  from  here  to  Kennett  —  if  I  had 


Letters  between  Two  Poets    ,       201 

not  gathered  from  your  brief  note  that  you  were  either 
very  busy  or  very  worried,  or  both.  I  do  hope  you  are 
now  more  at  ease  from  whatever  may  have  troubled  you. 

In  truth  I  particularly  longed  for  one  whole  free  day 
about  this  lovely  house  with  you.  Do  you  know  the 
place  —  old  Mr.  George  Brinton's  ?  To  the  west  is  a 
vista  running  for  miles  along  the  Brandywine  j  it 's  so 
fine  that  you  can  fancy,  every  sunset,  that  the  sun  has 
gone  that  way  on  purpose  to  see  the  country  over  there. 
A  long  green  hill  in  front  of  the  house  slopes  down  to 
the  river,  and  within  a  few  feet  is  a  wild  ravine  through 
which  a  stream  runs  down  to  the  great  rock-built 
milldam. 

Tell  me  how  fare  our  friends  Pro-  and  Epi-metheus, 
as  also  Deucalion  and  Pyrrha,  with  attendant  Spirits 
and  Voices.  As  for  me,  all  this  loveliness  of  wood, 
earth,  and  water  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  could  do  the 
whole  Universe  into  poetry ;  but  I  don't  want  to  write 
anything  large  for  a  year  or  so,  and  thus  I  content  my 
self  with  throwing  off  a  sort  of  spray  of  little  songs, 
whereof  the  magazines  now  have  several. 

Mrs.  Lanier  joins  me  in  hoping  that  Mrs.  Taylor  has 
brought  back  some  new  strength  out  of  the  Virginia 
Mountains. 

Faithfully  yours,  SIDNEY  L. 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK,  September  6, 1877. 
MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  I  found  your  letter  waiting  for 
me  on  Monday,  when  my  holiday  closed,  and  we  found 
ourselves  back  again  in  our  old  quarters.  I  don't  think 
the  White  Sulphur  helped  me  much,  after  all,  but  the 
sea  air  and  water  did,  and  I  feel  more  like  my  old  self 
now. 


2O2  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

I  was  (for  me)  exceedingly  nervous  and  restless  while 
at  Cedaroroft,  and  also  much  occupied  with  little 
matters  and  family  changes,  which  made  our  stay  there 
anything  but  refreshing.  Moreover,  I  was  foolishly  ex 
pecting,  from  day  to  day,  that  decision  of  the  Govern 
ment,  which  has  not  yet  been  made,  and  will  probably 
be  delayed  another  month.  I  am  so  accustomed  to 
look  forward  to  some  fixed  point  and  work  towards  it, 
that  I  hardly  know  how  to  manage  an  uncertainty  which 
includes  two  such  radically  different  fates.  I  will  explain 
the  whole  matter  when  we  next  meet :  it  is  too  long  a 
story  to  write.  Since  I  am  at  work  again,  I  can  more 
easily  banish  the  subject  from  my  mind.  It  was  really 
beginning  to  affect  my  health  —  although  I  am  rather 
ashamed  to  confess  it. 

I  know  Brinton's  place  very  well,  and  can  understand 
your  delight  in  the  scenery.  I  still  maintain  that  there 
is  no  such  pastoral  beauty  anywhere  else  in  the  country. 
You  will  find  C.  B.  something  of  an  enigma,  but  I 
presume  he  does  not  spend  much  time  there. 

Now  tell  me  what  your  plans  are,  when  you  are  com 
ing  hitherward  again  (after  the  2ist  I  can  give  you  a 
bed),  and  how  your  physical  self  prospers.  Strange 
that  you  should  mention  my  poem  just  when  I  take  it 
up  again  !  I  have  written  one  new  scene  since  Monday. 
My  wife  joins  in  friendliest  greetings  to  Mrs.  Lanier. 

Ever  faithfully  yours,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK,  October  13, 1877. 
MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  Your  letter  arrived  just  as  I  was 
leaving  for  Philadelphia  to  lecture  for  a  benevolent  pur 
pose.     I    had   no    time  to  call  personally  on  Colonel 
Church  (manager  of  the  "Galaxy"),  but  I  wrote  a  line 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  203 

and  sent  it  by  a  messenger,  giving  him  your  address  and 
begging  him  to  forward  the  check  at  once ;  therefore,  I 
trust  that  it  is  already  in  your  hands,  as  Church  is  an 
amiable,  obliging  fellow,  and  I  don't  think  will  neglect  it. 

"  Scribner's  "  are  going  to  publish  your  poem  on  the 
Chestnut-trees,  and  have  it  illustrated  by  me  !  When  I 
was  last  at  Cedarcroft,  I  made  the  necessary  sketch  of 
the  trees  for  them. 

Now  I  have  a  piece  of  news  for  you.  My  "  Deuka- 
lion  "  is  finished  !  The  conception  overcame  me  like  a 
summer  cloud,  during  all  my  holiday  time  ;  but  the  diffi 
culty  wherein  I  stuck  fast  more  than  a  year  ago,  would 
not  be  solved.  But  little  by  little,  I  worked  out  the  only 
possible  solution  for  me.  I  finished  the  3rd  Act,  my 
great  stumbling-block;  then,  as  the  4th  and  last  Act 
was  already  clear  in  my  mind,  and  I  still  felt  fresh  for 
the  task,  I  went  on.  Now  all  is  complete  and  fairly 
copied  into  that  volume  which  you  will  remember.  But 
I  shall  hardly  publish  before  another  year.  It  is  an 
immense  relief,  as  the  delight  of  writing  was  counter 
balanced  by  the  huge  difficulties  of  the  subject.  Well, 
there 's  more  of  my  life  and  thought  and  aspiration 
in  this  poem  than  in  all  else  I  have  written,  and  if  it  has 
no  vitality,  nothing  of  mine  can  have. 

For  a  week  past  I  have  been  giving  all  my  spare  time 
to  a  translation  and  adaptation  to  our  stage  of  Schiller's 
"  Don  Carlos  "  for  Lawrence  Barrett.  It 's  a  new  sort 
of  work  for  me,  very  interesting,  and  just  what  I  need  to 
let  myself  down  easily  from  the  heights  of  "  Deukalion." 

You  don't  tell  me  what  you  are  doing —  or  going  to 
do  —  in  Baltimore.  It 's  too  bad  that  the  Government 
is  so  slow  and  muddled  in  the  matter  of  making  appoint 
ments.  I  also  have  been  kept  hanging  in  suspense  for 


204  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

over  three  months,  and  now  find  that  my  chances  are 
rapidly  sliding  down  to  nothing.  I  Ve  given  up  all  ex 
pectation  of  the  place  which  would  help  me  on  in  my 
literary  plans,  and  I  won't  have  any  other. 

I  begin  my  course  of  1 2  lectures  in  Boston  on  Wednes 
day  next.  Work,  work,  work  !  —  But  I  thank  the  Lord 
that  my  poem  is  finished. 

Always  faithfully  yours,  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

BALTIMORE,  MD.,  October  8,  1877. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  I  have  been  in  the  un 
settled  state  of  a  bear  who  goes  poking  about  the  logs 
and  coverts  in  search  of  a  place  to  hibernate ;  and  this 
nomadic  condition  has  kept  me  from  answering  your 
letter.  I  had  thought  of  being  in  Washington  during 
the  winter.  There  was  some  prospect  that  either  a  small 
consulate  or  some  minor  place  in  one  of  the  Departments 
would  be  given  me.  But,  from  what  I  can  gather,  places 
of  this  sort  are  rarely  obtained  except  by  personal  appli 
cation  and  persistence.  Of  course  I  cannot  come  down 
to  that,  and  so  have  let  the  matter  go.  If  anything 
should  be  offered  I  will  cheerfully  take  it,  but  I  will  do 
no  urging  or  solicitation  of  any  sort. 

I  have  engaged  quarters  here  for  the  winter,  and  will 
bring  my  family  over,  in  about  a  week,  from  Chadd's 
Ford. 

The  editors  of  the  "  Galaxy  "  write  me  that  a  poem  of 
mine  called  "  A  Dream  of  the  Age  :  To  Richard  Wag 
ner,"  will  appear  in  the  November  number.  As  it  is 
about  time  for  that  to  be  in  print,  and  as  they  are 
sometimes  slow  in  remitting  when  I  write,  will  you 
take  the  trouble  to  call  at  Sheldon's  (I  think  it  is  8 
Murray  St.)  and  get  the  check  and  send  it  to  me  ?  The 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  205 

poem  is  about  seventy-five  or  eighty  lines,  if  I  am  not 
mistaken.  I  would  n't  bother  you  with  this,  but  I  really 
need  the  money.  My  address  is  "  Care  of  Mrs.  S.  B. 
Bird,  40  Mt.  Vernon  Place,  Baltimore,  Md." 

My  "  Bee  "  is  in  the  October  "  Lippincott's."  Tell 
me  what  you  are  doing  with  Deucalion.  Have  you  seen 
a  poem  by  Swinburne  of  which  the  refrain  is  :  "  Villon, 
our  sad  mad  bad  glad  brother's  name  "  ?  "  Sad  mad  bad 
glad  "  is  not  intended  for  a  joke.  It 's  a  wild  panegyric 
of  Villon. 

Will  you  squelch  the  Atlantic  contributor  who  is  un 
happy  about  Goethe  ? 

With  cordial  messages  to  Mrs.  Taylor, 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  L. 

33  DENMEAD  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD.,  January  6,  1878. 
MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  When  I  tell  you  that  since 
I  saw  you  I  have  searched  the  city  of  Baltimore  for  a 
dwelling  suitable  to  my  little  flock,  have  found  one,  have 
cajoled  the  landlord  into  a  hundred  repairs  and  better 
ments,  have  painted,  whitewashed,  weather-stripped  and 
new-locked-and-bolted  the  entire  establishment,  have 
furnished  it  with  all  manner  of  odds  and  ends  purchased 
from  all  manner  of  cheap  Johns,  have  got  in  my  coal 
and  my  wood,  have  provided  a  lot  of  oatmeal  and 
hominy  against  the  Wolf,  have  hired  a  Cook  and  General 
Domestic,  have  arranged  with  the  daily  milkman  and  all 
his  peripatetic  tribe,  have  done  at  least  a  million  and 
sixteen  other  things,  and  have  finally  moved  in  and 
settled,  —  you  will  understand  why  both  Christmas  and 
New  Year  passed  without  greetings  from  me  to  you. 
Though  it  has  been  a  desperate  piece  of  work,  it  seems  a 
mere  bagatelle  when  looked  back  upon  from  the  serene 


206  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

delight  with  which  we  all  find  ourselves  at  last  in  some 
thing  like  a  Home.  I  think  I  could  wander  about  the 
house  —  we  have  nine  rooms  !  —  for  a  month  with  my 
hands  in  my  pockets,  in  supreme  content  with  treading 
upon  my  own  carpets  and  gazing  at  my  own  furniture. 
When  I  am  on  the  street  there  is  a  certain  burgher-like 
heaviness  in  my  tread ;  why  should  I  skip  along  like  a 
bladdery  Bohemian?  I  am  a  man  of  substance;  I  am 
liable,  look  you,  for  water  rates,  gas  bills,  and  other  im 
portant  disbursements  incident  to  the  possession  of  two 
gowns  and  everything  handsome  about  me. 

Let  me  have  some  news  of  yourself —  "  yourself"  being 
a  term  which  of  course  includes  Mrs.  Taylor  and  the  poem. 

I  send  you  part  of  a  Christmas  poem1  which  I  wrote 
specially  for  the  purpose  of  giving  an  engraver  a  good 
chance  for  four  fine  wood-cuts.  Don't  you  think  a  sheep- 
paintdr  could  make  four  lovely  pictures  by  carrying  into 
detail  the  mere  hints  given  in  the  poem  ? 

I  will  probably  be  in  New  York  before  long,  and 
greatly  hope  to  see  you.  Our  new  address  here  is  — 
and  God  grant  long  may  be,  for  we  are  so  tired  of  mov 
ing  on  !  —  33  Denmead  St.  May  you  write  it  till  your 
pen,  like  the  medium's,  can  figure  it  out  alone. 

Accept  my  loving  wish  for  the  New  Year:  that  it 
may  be  full  of  new  creations  from  your  hand,  for  this, 
to  the  artist,  is  supreme  happiness. 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  L. 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK,  January  20,  1878. 
MY  DEAR   LANIER  :    I  was  wondering  what   had   be 
come  of  you  when  your  letter  arrived.     It  was  pleasant 
to  find  you  so  active  and  well-contented  in  your  new 

i  «  The  Hard  Times  in  Elfland." 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  207 

home,  and  I  relished  your  delight  in  it,  having  had 
exactly  the  same  sensation  here,  three  years  ago,  after 
living  so  long  in  trunks  and  satchels. 

The  Baltimore  papers  have  no  literary  criticism  — 
not  a  particle.  Can't  you  persuade  the  best  of  them  to 
try  the  experiment  with  you  ?  There  's  such  a  stay  in 
having  regular  work  of  some  kind.  I  think  your  New 
Year  poem  charmingly  quaint  and  fanciful ;  and  so  do 
several  persons  to  whom  I  have  shown  it.  I  wanted  to 
get  it  into  the  "  Weekly  Tribune,"  and  the  Editor  only 
declined  because  New  Year  was  10  days  past,  and  there 
was  a  stock  of  poetry  impatiently  waiting. 

I  have  finished  (but  not  yet  revised)  Schiller's  "  Don 
Carlos  "  since  I  saw  you,  and  have  done  a  good  deal  of 
magazine  work.  My  only  poem  is  the  "  Ode  on  Victor 
Emmanuel,"  which  you  may  have  seen.  The  Italians  here 
are  wild  with  delight,  and  the  Consul  has  forwarded  a 
copy  to  Queen  Margherita.  For  the  last  few  days  I 
have  been  writing  as  little  as  possible,  in  order  to  rest, 
having  been  troubled  with  a  sense  of  great  oppression 
on  the  chest.  The  fact  is,  I  must  take  more  rest  than 
I  have  been  doing. 

Speaking  of  this,  the  prospect  of  a  good  rest  abroad 
is  still  held  out  to  me ;  but  after  such  long  uncertainty, 
I  dare  not  count  upon  it  in  the  least.  I  learn  that  the 
President  favors  my  appointment,  and  Evarts  says 
nothing  against  it :  still  they  don't  make  it !  And  the 
post  has  been  vacant  nearly  six  months.  I  think  a 
decision  of  some  kind  will  be  made  in  a  few  weeks. 
During  the  fall,  when  I  gave  up  all  expectation  of  going, 
I  was  happy;  and  I  would  withdraw  my  name  now, 
rather  than  be  so  unsettled,  but  for  the  great  chance  of 
the  Goethe  work. 


208  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

My  wife  has  been  laid  up  with  a  catarrh,  and  Lilian 
is  at  Vassar ;  but  friends  come  in  now  and  then,  and  keep 
us  cheerful.  I  can  feel  that  I  am  steadily  gaining  in 
various  ways,  and  am  hopeful  of  the  future. 

Keep  up  your  spirits,  also ;  —  but  I  think  you  have 
the  blessing  of  a  good  natural  stock  of  them. 
Ever  faithfully  yours, 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


33  DENMEAD  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 
February  3,  1878. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  I  was  sorry  to  miss  you  and  Mrs. 
Taylor  when  I  called  on  Monday.  My  cold  had  taken 
such  possession  of  me  on  Sunday  evening  that  I  found 
it  prudent  to  keep  my  room.  I  delivered  your  books 
to  the  servant.  I  read  through  the  three  volumes  on 
Sunday:  and  upon  a  sober  comparison  I  think  Walt 
Whitman's  "  Leaves  of  Grass  "  worth  at  least  a  million 
of  "Among  My  Books"  and  "Atlanta  in  Calydon." 
In  the  two  latter  I  could  not  find  anything  which  has 
not  been  much  better  said  before ;  but  "  Leaves  of 
Grass"  was  a  real  refreshment  to  me  —  like  rude  salt 
spray  in  your  face  —  in  spite  of  its  enormous  fundamen 
tal  error  that  a  thing  is  good  because  it  is  natural,  and 
in  spite  of  the  world-wide  difference  between  my  own 
conceptions  of  art  and  its  author's. 

I  did  not  find  a  fitting  moment  to  mention  to  you  a 
matter  in  which  I  am  much  interested.  I  have  an  un 
conquerable  longing  to  stop  all  work  for  a  few  months 
except  the  study  of  Botany,  French  and  German,  and 
the  completion  of  a  long  poem  which  I  have  been  medi 
tating.  In  order  to  do  this  I  hoped  it  might  be  possible 
to  utilize  a  tract  of  timber  land  containing  about  a 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  209 

thousand  acres  which  I  own  in  Georgia.  I  have  some 
where  heard  that  there  was  an  association,  or  institution 
of  some  sort,  in  New  York,  for  helping  literary  people ; 
and  it  occurred  to  me  that  such  a  corporation  might 
take  my  lands  in  pledge  for  a  loan  of  five  or  six  hundred 
dollars.  I  should  want  it  for  twelve  months.  The  lands 
lie  immediately  on  a  railroad  which  runs  to  Savannah, 
and  whose  main  business  is  the  transportation  of  lumber 
and  timber  to  that  port.  They  are  in  a  portion  of  the 
state  which  is  now  attracting  much  attention  from  the 
North  Carolina  turpentine-distillers  and  lumbermen, 
and  which  has  recently  developed  great  capacities  for 
sheep-raising.  They  are  also  valuable  for  agricultural 
purposes,  after  all  the  timber  is  cut  off. 

Tell  me  if  any  such  institution  exists.  I  asked  Mr. 
Bryant  about  it  while  in  New  York ;  he  did  not  know  of 
it  at  all.  He  added  that  if  he  were  now  as  prosperous 
as  he  was  five  or  six  years  ago  he  would  have  offered  to 
advance  the  money  himself  on  the  lands :  which  was  a 
very  kindly  thought. 

Don't  give  yourself  the  least  concern  about  this.  Of 
course  it  is  n't  at  all  probable  that  any  such  association 
exists  if  Mr.  Bryant  does  not  know  of  it ;  and  I  don't 
suppose  I  would  mention  it  to  you  at  all  except  for 
the  anxiety  with  which  I  long  to  draw  my  breath  after  a 
hard  fight,  and  to  get  the  ends  of  my  thoughts  together 
— as  Carlyle  says. 

I  hope  Mrs.  Taylor  is  quite  recovered  from  her  cold. 
As  for  you  —  you  range  over  such  an  enormous  compass 
both  of  literary  and  terrestrial  ground  that  I  would  not 
be  at  all  surprised  to  hear  at  any  moment  that  you  were 
off  for 

The  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas, 


Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

in  order  to  deliver  a  lecture  at  Sydney  upon  Limoges 
Enamel,  thence  to  Capetown  for  the  purpose  of  reading 
a  dissertation  on  the  Elohistic  Division  of  the  Book  of 
Genesis,  thence  home  by  way  of  Reikiavik  (I  deny  any 
obligation  to  spell  this  dreadful  word  correctly),  where 
you  were  to  recite  an  original  poem  (in  Icelandic)  on 
the  Relation  of  Balder  to  Pegasus. 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  L. 

33  DENMEAD  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 
February  II,  1878. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  It  is  long  since  I  have  had  a 
keener  pleasure  than  the  announcement  of  your  nomina 
tion  1  brings  me.  I  have  just  read  it ;  and  without 
having  time  for  more  than  a  word  I  devote  that  to  the 
practical  question,  —  can  I  be  of  any  service  in  the 
matter  of  the  confirmation  by  the  Senate?  Will  there 
be  any  opposition  at  all,  there?  The  Senator  from 
Alabama  is  a  dear  friend  of  mine  and  I  can  ask  anything 
of  him  :  besides,  the  Senators  from  Georgia  and  one 
from  Mississippi  —  Mr.  Lamar  —  are  all  gentlemen  with 
whom  my  relations  are  very  friendly.  If  there  is  the 
least  likelihood  of  necessity  for  arraying  your  friends, 
please  let  me  know  so  that  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of 
telling  these  senators  what  I  know  about  you. 

God  speed  your  final  appointment.  Isn't  it  simply 
too  delightful?  I  could  kiss  Mr.  Hayes,  in  behalf  of 
the  Fitness  of  Things  —  which  was  never  more  gra 
ciously  worshipped  than  by  this  same  nomination. 

My  wife  joins  me  in  hearty  congratulations  to  you 
both. 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  L. 

1  As  minister  to  Germany. 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  211 

142  EAST  i8TH  ST.,  NEW  YORK,  February  19,  1878. 

MY  DEAR  LANIER  :  There  's  a  rewarding  as  well  as 
an  avenging  fate  !  What  a  payment  for  all  my  years  of 
patient  and  unrecognized  labor  !  But  you  know  just 
what  the  appointment  is  to  me.  It  came  as  a  surprise 
after  all,  —  and  a  greater  amazement  is  the  wonderful  and 
generous  response  to  it  from  press  and  people.  I  feel 
as  if  buried  under  a  huge  warm  wave  of  congratulation. 

I  heard,  indirectly,  yesterday,  that  the  Southern  Sena 
tors  are  delighted,  and  will  not  fail  to  vote  for  confirma 
tion.  Still,  if  you  could  say  a  word  to  Lamar,  it  might 
be  a  further  assurance ;  as  a  Southern  man,  your  en 
dorsement  would  certainly  strengthen  me.  But  pray 
don't  go  to  any  special  trouble,  for  Bryant  and  Reid 
think  the  confirmation  certain.  I  can  only  write  a  word 
to-day,  for  there  is  no  end  to  the  kindly  telegrams  and 
letters,  and  I  wish  to  answer  them  all.  My  wife  and  I 
send  love  and  thanks  to  both  of  you. 

BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

33  DENMEAD  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  March  4,  1878. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  The  enclosed  letter  from  Mr.  Lamar 
came  this  morning.  Its  expressions  are  so  cordial  to 
wards  you  that  I  thought  you  might  care  to  see  it. 

With  new  delight  each  day  I  regard  the  prospect 
before  you.  I  shall  begin  to  love  Mr.  Hayes  !  A  man 
who  appoints  you  Minister  to  Germany  and  who  vetoes 
the  Silver  Bill  ...  is  a  man  who  goes  near  to  redeem 
the  time. 

But  I  cannot  now  do  more  than  send  you  a  violet. 
I  'm  making  some  desperate  efforts  to  get  steady  work, 
of  any  kind ;  for  I  find  I  cannot  at  all  maintain  our 
supplies  of  daily  bread  by  poetry  alone.  So  far  I  have 


212  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

failed  in  getting  any  constant  work,  but  I  keep  trying  for 
it,  and  I  do  not  doubt  it  will  come. 

My  wife  sends  hearty  messages  to  you  and  Mrs. 
Taylor.  As  for  me,  you  know  how  I  am  always  your 
grateful  and  affectionate  S.  L. 

33  DENMEAD  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 
March   25,  1878. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  TAYLOR  :  Some  time  when  you  're 
riding  in  a  street  car  and  have  n't  anything  important  to 
think  about,  or  rather  don't  want  to  think  of  anything 
important  —  won't  you  be  kind  enough  to  read  this 
sonnet1  (if  you  can)  and  find  out  if  it  is  quite  too 
absurd  ?  Of  course  it  is  merely  meant  to  please  a  friend 
here,  —  a  woman  who  plays  Beethoven  with  the  large 
conception  of  a  man,  and  yet  nurses  her  children  all  day 
with  a  noble  simplicity  of  devotion  such  as  I  have  rarely 
seen  :  being  withal,  in  point  of  pure  technic,  the  greatest 
piano-player  I  ever  heard. 

I  have  been  studying  German  in  the  wee  minutes 
allowed  by  other  occupations,  without  a  teacher;  and 
don't  want  you  to  think  I  would  with  malice  prepense 
try  to  write  a  poem  in  that  tongue. 

I  mark  a  thousand  pleasant  things  about  you  in  the 
newspapers,  and  rejoice  heartily  in  them  all.  God  speed 
you  in  your  whole  work. 

Your  friend,  SIDNEY  L. 

There  is  here  a  gap  of  over  six  months,  Mr.  Taylor 
having  left  the  United  States  to  enter  upon  his  duties 
as  Minister  to  Germany.  In  the  last  letter  of  the  series 
Mr.  Lanier  writes  :  — 

1  To  Annette  Falk-Auerbach. 


Letters  between  Two  Poets  213 

180  ST.  PAUL  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 

October  20,  1878. 

MY  DEAREST  MINISTER,  —  always  a  minister  of  grace 
to  me,  —  I  have  long  forborne  to  write  you  because  I 
knew  your  whole  mind  would  be  occupied  with  a  thou 
sand  new  cares,  and  I  could  not  bear  to  add  the  burden 
of  a  letter  thereto.  But  you  must  be  getting  easy  in  the 
new  saddle  by  this ;  and  somehow  I  feel  that  I  can't  wait 
longer  before  sending  you  a  little  love-letter  that  shall  at 
least  carry  my  longing  over  the  big  seas  to  you.  Not 
long  ago  I  was  in  New  York  for  some  days ;  but  you 
were  in  Germany ;  —  and  the  city  seemed  depopulated. 
There  were  multitudes  of  what  Walt  Whitman  calls 

Little  plentiful  manikins 

Skipping  about  in  collars  and  tailed  coats, 

but  my  Man,  my  haek^a  leofost  (as  it  is  in  Be6wulf)  was 
wanting,  and  I  wandered  disconsolately  towards  142  E. 
1 8th  St. — where  I  used  so  often  and  so  ruthlessly  to 
break  in  upon  your  labors — as  if  I  could  wish  you  back 
into  your  chair  rolling  out  the  prophecy  of  Deucalion. 
Even  the  Westminster  Hotel  had  new  proprietors  and  I 
felt  a  sense  of  intentional  irony  in  its  having  changed 
from  the  European  to  the  American  plan,  —  as  if  for 
pure  spite  because  you  had  left  America  and  gone  to 
Europe.  My  dear,  when  are  you  coming  back  ? 

A  short  time  ago  I  found  in  a  second-hand  bookstall 
a  copy  of  Sir  Henry  Wotton's  works  and  letters  printed 
in  1685,  and  bought  it  — with  about  all  the  money  I 
had  :  for  a  joke  of  old  Sir  Henry's  on  a  minister  carried 
my  mind  to  you.  Having  been  asked  (he  narrates  the 
story  himself,  being  then  on  a  ministerial  journey  through 
Germany)  to  write  in  an  album,  he  chose  to  define  a 


214  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Minister,  and  said  :    A  Minister  is   a  man  sent  to  lie 
abroad  for  the  good  of  his  country. 

I  have  seen  your  "  Deucalion  "  announced,  but  nothing 
more.  Indeed  I  have  been  so  buried  in  study  for  the 
past  six  months  that  I  know  not  news  nor  gossip  of  any 
kind.  Such  days  and  nights  of  glory  as  I  have  had  !  I 
have  been  studying  Early  English,  Middle  English  and 
Elizabethan  poetry,  from  Be6wulf  to  Ben  Jonson :  and 
the  world  seems  twice  as  large.  I  enclose  a  programme 
of  lectures  I  am  going  to  give  before  a  class  of  sub 
scribers  at  the  Peabody  Institute  this  winter,  from  which 
you  will  see  the  drift  of  my  work. 

You  will  also  care  to  know  that  Scribner's  has  ac 
cepted  three  papers  of  mine  on  "  The  Physics  of  Poetry," 
in  which  I  have  succeeded  in  developing  a  complete 
system  of  prosody  for  all  languages  from  the  physical 
constitution  of  sound.  It  has  given  me  indescribable 
pleasure  to  be  able,  through  the  principles  therein  an 
nounced,  to  put  formal  poetry  on  a  scientific  basis  which 
renders  all  its  processes  perfectly  secure. 

If  you  should  see  an  Appleton's  Journal  for  the  cur 
rent  month  —  November  —  you  may  be  interested  in  an 
experiment  of  mine  therein  with  logooedic  dactyls  called 
"  The  Revenge  of  Hamish."  Another  freer  treatment 
of  the  same  rhythm  by  me  will  appear  in  a  book  to  be 
issued  by  Roberts  Brothers  in  the  "  No  Name  Series  " 
(called  the  "  Masque  of  Poets  ")  under  the  heading 
"The  Marshes  of  Glynn :  "  —  though  all  this  last  is  as 
yet  a  secret  and  not  to  be  spoken  of  till  the  book  shall 
have  been  out  and  been  cast  to  the  critics  for  a  while. 
I  hope  to  find  a  publisher  for  my  book  on  English 
Prosody  *  next  spring ;  also  for  my  historical  and  criti- 

1  The  Science  of  English  Verse. 


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Letters  between  Two  Poets  215 

cal  account,  in  two  volumes,  of  "  The  English  Sonnet- 
Makers  from  Surrey  to  Shakspere ;  "  and  I  am  in 
treaty  with  Scribner's  Sons  for  a  "  Boy's  Froissart " 
which  I  have  proposed  to  them  and  which  they  like 
the  idea  of  so  far.  By  next  autumn  I  trust  I  will  have 
a  volume  of  poetry  ("  The  Songs  of  Aldhelm  ")  in  print, 
which  is  now  in  a  pigeon-hole  of  my  desk  half-jotted 
down.  During  the  coming  week  I  go  to  Washington 
and  Philadelphia  to  arrange,  if  possible,  for  delivering 
my  course  of  lectures  before  classes  in  those  cities. 

There  !  I  have  reported  progress  up  to  date.  Who 
better  than  you  —  who  looked  so  kindly  upon  my  poor 
little  beginning  —  has  the  right  to  know  how  far  I  've 
gone? 

Give  me  some  little  account  of  yourself,  if  you  are  not 
too  busy.  My  wife  and  I  send  grateful  and  affectionate 
messages  to  you :  adding  cordial  postscripts  for  Mrs. 
Taylor  and  Miss  Lilian. 

God  bless  you  and  keep  you  ever  in  such  fair  ways  as 
follow  the  fair  wishes  of 

Your  faithful  SIDNEY  L. 

Mr.  Taylor  died  at  Berlin  in  December  of  this  year  — 
a  few  weeks  after  the  above  letter  reached  him. 


A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend 


A    Poet's   Letters   to    a    Friend 

PAUL  HAMILTON  HAYNE* 

LONG  before  the  public  knew  anything  of  Sidney 
Lanier  as  an  author,  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  have 
formed  his  acquaintance,  not  personally,  but  by  cor 
respondence.  In  the  year  1867,  if  memory  serves  me, 
a  poem  by  him  in  one  of  the  Southern  periodicals 
attracted  my  notice.  It  was  a  brief  lyric,  distinguished 
by  a  peculiar  and  scarcely  definable  quality  of  fancy, 
which  affected  the  reader  much  as  a  loving  observer  of 
nature  might  be  affected  by  the  strange,  golden  remote 
ness  of  an  October  horizon.  I  wrote  to  the  young  poet, 
who  was  more  than  a  decade  my  junior,  some  words 
of  appreciation  touching  these  verses ;  and  he  replied  in 
a  manner  so  cordial  that  thenceforth  a  correspondence 
was  established  between  us,  which,  though  with  many 
interruptions,  continued  down  to  a  period  closely  pre 
ceding  his  death. 

From  the  beginning  I  could  not  but  place  a  high  value 
upon  his  letters.  Their  quaintness  of  thought  and 
phraseology  seemed  at  first  to  indicate  affectation,  —  an 
affectation  of  archaism ;  but  soon  I  learned  to  under- 
derstand  that  this  style  was  as  natural  to  Lanier  as 

1  When  Mr.  Hayne  printed  some  of  these  letters  in  the 
"  Critic  "  in  1886,  his  delicacy  of  feeling  led  him  to  omit  all  those 
portions  in  which  Mr.  Lanier  expressed  admiration  for  Mr. 
Hayne's  work.  It  seems  fitting  that  these  should  now  be  restored, 
and  the  letters  are  accordingly  printed  here  in  their  entirety. 


22O  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

breathing.  He  had  steeped  his  imagination  from  boy 
hood  in  the  writings  of  the  earlier  English  annalists  and 
poets,  —  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  Sir  Thomas  Mallory, 
Gower,  Chaucer,  and  the  whole  bead-roll  of  such  ancient 
English  worthies.  I  was  of  course  a  little  surprised 
during  our  earlier  epistolary  communion  to  perceive,  not 
only  his  unusually  thorough  knowledge  of  Chaucer,  for 
example,  whose  couplets  flowed  as  "  trippingly  from  his 
pen  "  as  if  "  The  Canterbury  Tales  "  and  "  The  Romaunt 
of  the  Rose  "  were  his  daily  mental  food,  but  to  find 
him  quoting  as  naturally  and  easily  from  "  Piers  Plough 
man,"  and  scores  of  the  half-obsolete  ballads  of  the 
English  and  Scottish  borders. 

He  gloried  in  antiquarian  lore  and  antiquarian  litera 
ture.  Hardly  "  Old  Monkbarns "  himself  could  have 
pored  over  a  black-letter  volume  with  greater  enthusiasm. 
Especially  he  loved  the  tales  of  chivalry,  and  thus,  when 
the  opportunity  came,  was  fully  equipped  as  an  interpre 
ter  of  Froissart  and  "  King  Arthur  "  for  the  benefit  of 
our  younger  generation  of  students.  With  the  great 
Elizabethans  Lanier  was  equally  familiar.  Instead  of 
skimming  Shakspeare,  he  went  down  into  his  depths. 
Few  have  written  so  subtly  of  Shakspeare's  mysterious 
sonnets.  Through  all  Lanier's  productions  we  trace  the 
influence  of  his  early  literary  loves ;  but  nowhere  do  the 
pithy  quaintnesses  -of  the  old  bards  and  chroniclers 
display  themselves  more  effectively  —  not  only  in  the 
illustrations,  but  through  the  innermost  warp  and  woof 
'  of  the  texture  of  his  ideas  and  his  style  —  than  in  some 
of  his  familiar  epistles. 

Among  the  letters  now  produced,  there  is  one  of 
particular  significance.  It  is  the  letter  in  which  he 
speaks  of  his  greatest  inspirer,  of  the  chief  mistress  of  his 


A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend          221 

artistic  reverence  and  affection,  —  music.  Poetry  he 
distinctly  affirms  to  have  been  with  him  a  species  of 
"  side-issue."  The  effect  of  his  musical  genius  —  a 
genius  pur  et  simple,  undeveloped  as  unmarred  by  formal 
education  —  upon  the  spirit  and  technique  of  his  verse 
was  very  remarkable,  being  sometimes,  as  in  "The 
Marshes  of  Glynn,"  "beautiful  exceedingly,"  and  again, 
as  in  the  "  Centennial  Cantata,"  merely  grotesque. 

His  letters  to  me  in  1868,  which  showed  in  a  delight 
ful  way  the  nature  of  his  literary  tastes  and  studies,  and 
which  were  full  of  felicitous  references,  and  illustrations 
from  sources  "  caviare  to  the  general,"  have  unhappily 
been  lost;  but  the  following  from  Macon,  Ga.,  dated 
March  15,  '69,  is  noteworthy  in  several  particulars: 
firstly,  as  giving  glimpses  of  the  man's  morale  and  his 
subtle  spiritual  instincts;  and  secondly,  of  that  deep, 
over-refining  intellectuality,  with  its  searching  introspec 
tions,  German  rather  than  English,  which  emphasizes  so 
much  that  he  has  composed,  whether  in  prose  or  verse. 
A  few  words  of  explanation  concerning  this  letter.  He 
had  been  discussing,  in  previous  communications,  the 
great  proneness  of  men  of  sensitive  temperament  and 
eager,  buoyant,  imaginative  aspirations  toward  the  re 
action  of  despondency  and  its  accompanying  tempta 
tions;  and  Lanier  had  acknowledged  that  he  was 
himself  subject  occasionally  to  the  dominion  of  a  gloomy 
fiend,  a  recent  visit  from  whom  he  had  most  graphically 
described. 

MACON,  GA.,  March  15,  1869. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  HAYNE  :  Your  forbearing  goodness  en 
tirely  bankrupts  me  :  but  my  outstanding  obligations  to 
you  lie  upon  me  so  sweetly  and  so  unlike  all  other 


222  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

debts,  that  I  do  not  desire  to  take  the  benefit  of  the 
Act  relieving  Insolvents,  and  I  refuse  to  be  discharged. 
Of  course  I  would  not  have  dared  to  write  to  any  ordi 
nary  correspondent  what  I  wrote  you  :  for  I  should  very 
surely  have  been  told  that  I  was  a  lackadaisical  fool  who 

(needed  work  and  physic.  These  wonderful  hells  into 
which  we  descend,  at  such  times  —  who  will  picture 
them  to  one  who  has  not  dwelt  in  them?  It  is  idle  to 
discuss  colors  with  a  blind  man.  As  for  me,  however, 
the  good  God  has  seen  fit  to  arm  me,  very  singularly, 
against  the  dark  hosts  of  temptations  that  dwell  in  these 
places.  The  longing  for  stimulants,  which  I  feel  in 
common,  I  suppose,  with  all  men  of  like  nature,  always 
defeats  itself  in  my  particular  case,  by  awakening  a 
certain  Pride  of  Pain,  a  certain  self-gratulation  of  Sorrow, 
(how  foolish  this  sounds  !)  which  enables  me  to  defy 
the  whole  damnable  troop  with  a  power  which  seems 
thoroughly  anomalous,  in  view  of  the  fact  that,  ordi 
narily,  I  do  not  think  my  will  is  very  strong,  because 
my  sympathies,  which  arc  strong,  easily  override  it. 
Indeed,  it  is  not  a  bad  thing,  that  I  get  plunged  into 
these  awful  depths :  for,  O  My  Friend,  they  teach  me 
lessons  which  are  beyond  the  reach  of  reason,  beyond 
the  utmost  of  Thought,  beyond  Time,  beyond  myself. 
JHave  you  ever  felt,  in  those  good  moments  when  the 
formulae  of  life  sink  out  of  memory  and  the  soul  comes 
vto  look  at  things  with  a  sort  of  Be  fore- World  simplicity, 
—  have  you  felt,  at  such  times,  that  you  had  two  selves, 
of  which  one  stood  as  it  were  in  the  continual  back 
ground,  calm,  sedate  as  eternity,  looking  with  a  half- 
amused  smile  upon  the  slips  and  errors  and  crimes  and 
contortions  and  struggles  of  your  other  self  in  its  feverish 
life,  as  if  this  calm  inner  self  were  confident  that,  after 


A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend          223 

all  the  struggles  and  fevers,  the  struggling  and  feverish 
j^will  come  out  pure  and  whole  and  calm  and  strong? 
What  do  we  mean  when  we  say  one  is  "  master  of  him- 
self"  —  "  one  is  conscious  of  himself,"  —  "  one  ex 
amines  himself,"  —  etc.  ? 

In  these,  and  a  thousand  similar  expressions  of  com 
mon  life,  are  indicated  some  wonderful  metaphysic  facts 
(I  hate  the  word  psychology),  which,  when  the  metaphysi 
cians  come  to  find  the  true  source  of  their  science,  will 
be  quickly  revealed. 

At  any  rate,  these  present  Spring-breezes  are  blowing  on 
my  soul  as  on  a  young  green  leaf,  and  I  wave  and  sway 
and  rise  and  fall,  in  the  midst  of  the  Heavens,  with  a 
wonderful  love  and  happiness  upbearing  me.  Ah,  the 
exquisite,  intense  calms,  which  are  yet  full  of  a  strange 
quickening  and  stir  of  birth  !  I  have  a  boy,  whose  eyes 
are  blue  as  your  Aethra's.  Every  day  when  my  work  is 
done  I  take  him  in  my  strong  arms  and  lift  him  up  and 
pore  in  his  face.  The  intense  repose,  penetrated  some 
how  with  a  thrilling  mystery  of  potential  activity,  which 
dwells  in  his  large  open  eyes,  teaches  me  new  things. 
I  say  to  myself,  where  are  the  strong  arms  in  which  I, 
too,  might  lay  me,  and  repose,  and  yet  be  full  of  the  fire 
of  life?  And  always,  through  the  twilight,  come  an 
swers  from  the  other  world  :  Master,  Master,  Master ; 
there  is  one,  one  Christ :  in  His  Arms  we  rest. 
Truly  your  friend, 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 

Not  infrequently  Lanier  would  send  me  copies  of  his 
unpublished  verses,  and  some  of  his  best  poems  I  thus 
enjoyed  the  opportunity  of  perusing  in  MS.  "  Corn," 
I  remember,  was  among  the  number;  and  I  vividly 


224  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

recall  the  impression  which  that  fine  lyric  made  upon 
me.  "  In  <  Corn '  I  have  aimed  at  popularity/'  he 
wrote ;  "  I  mean  the  higher  popularity  given  to  artistic 
work."  The  "  little  poem  "  which  he  mentions  in  the 
following  note  (Macon,  March  21,  1870)  was  a  fragment, 
though  complete  in  itself,  taken  from  his  "Jacquerie," 
a  production  which  he  never,  I  believe,  completed. 

MACON,  GA.,  March  21,  1870. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  HAYNE  :  I  thank  you  very  heartily  for 
your  encouraging  communications  of  my  little  poem ; 
and  for  your  thoughtful  kindness  in  sending  me  the 
duplicate  copies  contained  in  two  of  your  letters. 

Much  reflection  convinces  me  that  praise  is  no  ignoble 
stimulus,  and  that  the  artist  should  not  despise  it. 
Once  satisfied  that  the  praise  is  genuine  praise  for 
genuine  art,  —  surely,  then,  the  artist  may  with  confident 
delight  bathe  in  these  glorious  seas  of  sympathetic 
appreciation,  and  invigorate  himself  for  work.  "  Good 
Heavens  ! "  cries  Mrs.  Browning  ex  ore  Aurora  Leigh : 
"  I  shall  be  almost  popular  !  "  In  this  exclamation,  one 
discovers  at  once  a  true  and  a  false  philosophy.  It  is 
true,  Martin  Farquhar  Tupper  is,  in  a  certain  sense, 
"  popular  "  :  but  then  how  about  Homer  and  Milton 
and  Shakespeare?  Are  they  not  popular,  also? 

And  so,  whenever  my  one  condition-requisite,  above 
assigned,  is  fulfilled  :  that  is,  whenever  I  am  satisfied 
that  the  praiser,  being  himself  an  artist,  praises  what  he 
considers  good  work;  I  appropriate  this  praise  with 
entire  abandon,  I  enjoy  it  without  arrtires  pense'es  as  to 
whether  it  is  my  right,  or  as  to  whether  I  am  infringing 
upon  that  outwardly-fascinating,  inwardly-false  German 
doctrine  that  the  Self  of  genius  is  sufficient  for  itself. 


A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend          225 

I  will  write  you  again,  in  a  day  or  two  :  meantime, 
for  the  enjoyment  of  your  sympathy,  which  I  received 
without  question  and  use  without  hesitation,  accept  the 
sincere  gratitude  of  Your  Friend, 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 

The  next  letter  seems  to  me  a  striking  one.  One 
part  of  it  is  a  prose-poem,  touched  by  an  exquisite 
delicacy  of  fancy;  and  another  part  foreshadows  that 
trenchant  critical  force,  combining  fine  analysis  with 
truly  philosophical  generalization,  displayed  so  con 
spicuously,  at  a  subsequent  period,  in  Lanier's  lectures 
at  Johns  Hopkins  University,  Baltimore. 

MACON,  GA.,  April  13,  1870. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  HAYNE  :  Watching,  night  and  day,  for 
two  weeks  past,  by  the  bedside  of  a  sick  friend,  I  have 
had  no  spiritual  energy  to  escape  out  of  certain  gloomy 
ideas  which  always  possess  me  when  I  am  in  the  im 
mediate  presence  of  physical  ailment ;  and  I  did  not 
care  to  write  you  that  sort  of  letter  which  one  is  apt  to 
send  under  such  circumstances,  since  I  gather  from 
your  letters  that  you  have  enough  and  to  spare  of  these 
dismal  down-weighings  of  the  flesh's  ponderous  cancer 
upon  suffering  and  thoughtful  souls. 

I  am  glad,  therefore,  that  I  waited  until  this  divine 
day.  If  the  year  were  an  Orchestra,  to-day  would  be 
the  Flute-tone  in  it.  A  serene  Hope,  just  on  the  very 
verge  of  realizing  itself:  a  tender  loneliness,  —  what 
some  German  calls  Waldeinsamkeif,  wood-loneliness,  — 
the  ineffable  withdrawal-feeling  that  comes  over  one 
when  he  hides  himself  in  among  the  trees,  and  "knows 
himself  shut  in  by  their  purity,  as  by  a  fragile  yet 

15 


226  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

impregnable  wall,  from  the  suspicions  and  the  trade- 
regulations  of  men ;  and  an  inward  thrill,  in  the  air,  or 
in  the  sunshine,  one  knows  not  which,  half  like  the 
thrill  of  the  passion  of  love,  and  half  like  the  thrill  of 
the  passion  of  friendship  :  —  these,  which  make  up  the 
office  of  the  flute-voice  in  those  poems  which  the  old 
masters  wrote  for  the  Orchestra,  also  prevail  through 
out  to-day. 

Do  you  like  —  as  I  do  —  on  such  a  day  to  go  out 
into  the  sunlight  and  stop  thinking,  —  lie  fallow,  like  a 
field,  and  absorb  those  certain  liberal  potentialities  which 
will  in  after  days  reappear,  duly  formulated,  duly 
grown,  duly  perfected,  as  poems?  I  have  a  curiosity 
to  know  if  to  you,  as  to  me,  there  come  such  as  this 
day  :  —  a  day  exquisitely  satisfying  with  all  the  fulnesses 
of  the  Spring,  and  filling  you  as  full  of  nameless  tremors 
as  a  girl  on  a  wedding- morn ;  and  yet,  withal,  a  day 
which  utterly  denies  you  the  gift  of  speech,  which  puts 
its  finger  on  the  lip  of  your  inspiration,  which  inexorably 
enforces  upon  your  soul  a  silence  that  you  infinitely  long 
to  break,  a  day,  in  short,  which  takes  absolute  possession 
of  you  and  says  to  you,  in  tones  which  command 
obedience,  to-day  you  must  forego  expression  and  all 
otitcome,  you  must  remain  a  falloiv  field,  for  the  sun  and 
wind  to  fertilize,  nor  shall  any  corn  or  flowers  sprout 
into  visible  green  and  red  until  to-morrow,  —  mandates, 
further,  that  you  have  learned  after  a  little  experience 
not  only  not  to  fight  against,  but  to  love  and  revere  as 
the  wise  communication  of  the  Unseen  Powers. 

Have  you  seen  Browning's  "The  Ring  and  the 
Book  "  ?  I  am  confident  that,  at  the  birth  of  this  man, 
among  all  the  good  fairies  who  showered  him  with 
magnificent  endowments,  one  bad  one  —  as  in  the  old 


A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend          227 

tale  —  crept  in  by  stealth  and  gave  him  a  constitutional 
twist  i'  the  neck,  whereby  his  windpipe  became,  and 
has  ever  since  remained,  a  marvellous  tortuous  passage. 
Out  of  this  glottis-labyrinth  his  words  won't,  and  can't 
come  straight.  A  hitch  and  a  sharp  crook  in  every 
sentence  bring  you  up  with  a  shock.  But  what  a  shock 
it  is?  Did  you  ever  see  a  picture  of  a  lasso,  in  the  act 
of  being  flung?  In  a  thousand  coils  and  turns,  inex 
tricably  crooked  and  involved  and  whirled,  yet,  if  you 
mark  the  noose  at  the  end,  you  see  that  it  is  directly  in 
front  of  the  bison's  head,  there,  and  is  bound  to  catch 
him  !  That  is  the  way  Robert  Browning  catches  you. 
The  first  sixty  or  seventy  pages  of  "  The  Ring  and  the 
Book  "  are  altogether  the  most  doleful  reading,  in  point 
either  of  idea  or  of  music,  in  the  English  language  ;  and 
yet  the  monologue  of  Giuseppe  Caponsacchi,  that  of 
Pompilia  Comparini,  and  the  two  of  Guido  Frances- 
chini,  are  unapproachable,  in  their  kind,  by  any  living  or 
dead  poet,  me  judice.  Here  Browning's  jerkiness  comes 
in  with  inevitable  effect.  You  get  lightning-glimpses  — 
and,  as  one  naturally  expects  from  lightning,  zig-zag 
glimpses  —  into  the  intense  night  of  the  passion  of  these 
souls.  It  is  entirely  wonderful  and  without  precedent. 
The  fitful  play  of  Guide's  lust,  and  scorn,  and  hate,  and 
cowardice,  closes  with  a  master-stroke  : 

"...  Christ!  Maria!  God!  .  .  . 
Pompilia,  ivill you  let  them  murder  me?  '' 

Pompilia,  mark  you,  is  dead,  by  Guide's  own  hand ; 
deliberately  stabbed,  because  he  hated  her  purity,  which 
all  along  he  has  reviled  and  mocked  with  the  Devil's 
own  malignant  ingenuity  of  sarcasm. 

You  spoke  of  a  project  you  wished  to  tell  me.     Let 


228  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

me  hear  it.  Your  plans  are  always  of  interest  to  me. 
Can  I  help  you?  I  Ve  not  put  pen  to  paper,  in  the 
literary  way,  in  a  long  time.  How  I  thirst  to  do  so,  how 
I  long  to  sing  a  thousand  various  songs  that  oppress  me, 
unsung,  —  is  inexpressible.  Yet,  the  mere  work  that 
brings  bread  gives  me  no  time.  I  know  not,  after  all, 
if  this  is  a  sorrowful  thing.  Nobody  likes  my  poems 
except  two  or  three  friends,  —  who  are  themselves  poets, 
and  can  supply  themselves  ! 

Strictly  upon  Scriptural  principle,  I  Ve  written  you  (as 
you  see)  almost  entirely  about  myself.  This  is  doing 
unto  you  as  I  would  you  should  do  unto  me.  Go,  and 
do  likewise.  Write  me  about  yourself. 

Your  Friend, 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 

FIFTH  AVENUE  HOTEL,  NEW  YORK, 
August  9,  1870. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  HAYNE  :  Your  letter,  containing  the 
poem,  reached  me  at  Lookout  Mountain,  Tennessee, 
where  I  had  been  spending  some  weeks.  I  received  it 
at  night,  about  midnight.  Some  friends  —  one  of  whom 
was  Mr.  Jefferson  Davis  —  were  sitting  in  the  porch  of 
my  cottage,  and  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to 
read  the  poem  aloud  to  them.  So,  —  while  my  fair  wife 
held  the  candle  and  shaded  it  with  rounded  white  hand 
from  the  mountain-breeze,  I  read ;  and  I  feel  very  con 
fident  you  would  have  been  gratified  with  the  sentiments 
of  approval  which  followed,  in  hearty  sympathy  with  the 
piece.  I  like  it  better  than  anything  you  have  written  : 
it  has  in  it  the  magnetism  which  distinguishes  genuine 
poetry  from  culture-poetry. 

Write  me  some  more  like  this,  good  Friend ! 

I  am  travelling  for  my  health.     If  you  know  what  this 


A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend         229 

phrase  means,  you  know  to  what  a  melancholy  state  I 
am  come.  It  would  seem  that  the  foul  fiend,  Con 
sumption,  hath  me  on  the  hip.  Against  him  I  still 
fight :  but  God  knows  the  event  thereof.  I  had  started 
for  Minnesota :  but  I  find  the  journey  so  disagreeable 
that,  after  resting  here  a  day  or  two,  I  'm  going  back  to 
Orange  C.  H.,  Va.,  where  I  have  a  friend  living  among 
the  Sweet  Mountains,  with  whom  I  shall  stay  some 
weeks ;  and  where,  an  thou  hast  any  bowels  of  com 
passion  left  in  thy  soul's  abdomen,  thou  wilt  write  me, 
"  Care  Charles  Taliaferro,  Esq." 

I  do  no  work  at  all.  I  am  too  ill.  This  is  Apollyon's 
unkindest  cut  of  all.  In  this,  he  hath  wounded  my  sword- 
arm.  Well,  well.  And  so,  write  me,  dear  Mr.  Hayne, 
and  believe  that  I  always  enjoy  heartily  your  cheering 
words,  and  that  I  am  always  your  Friend, 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 

MACON,  GA.,  March  20,  1871. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  HAYNE  :  Your  letter  came  during  my 
absence  from  Macon,  else  I  should  sooner  have  told  you 
the  pleasure  which  I  have  derived  from  your  MS.  "  Fire 
Pictures." 

I  have  picked  out  a  grain  or  two  of  gravel,  as  it 
were,  and  slag,  which  I  find  scattered  thro'  your  Fire- 
Product  ;  and  I  mention  them,  simply  because  they  are 
small  and  might  therefore  escape  your  attention :  — 
which  being  first  done,  I  can  then  tell  you  about  the 
pure  fire  and  the  rare  flame-beauty  which  delight  me 
in  your  Poem. 

i  st.  In  the  second  stanza-picture,  two  of  the  verbs 
have  the  ancient  termination  .  .  'eth,  viz.,  "  turneth," 
and  "  burneth ;  "  while,  in  the  same  stanza,  the  first  verb 


230  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

has  the  modern  termination  'j,  viz.,  "  sweeps."  Would  n't 
the  critics  require  all  to  be  homogeneous,  either  modern 
form,  or  ancient  form  ? 

2d.  In  the  4th  picture,  the  word  "  lava's  "  is  intended 
for  the  plural  lavas,  and  not  for  the  possessive  case, 
nicht  wahr? 

3d.  In  the  same  stanza,  would  you  not  desire  to 
make  some  change  in  the  "  mothers'  frenzied  hand ; " 
"  mothers'  "  being  the  possessive  plural,  and  "  hand  " 
being  singular? 

4th.  In  the  same  stanza,  do  you  not  think  the  last 
two  lines  would  be  better  in  the  earlier  portion  of  the 
poem,  before  you  have  passed  from  the  general,  to  the 
detailed  description  of  the  pictures  ?  Do  you  not  think 
that  a  general  idea  (as  contained  in 

"  What  strange  visions  form  and  start 
Out  from  its  mysterious  heart  " ) 

makes  rather  a  fall,  than  otherwise,  from  the  climax  of 
a  picture  whose  details,  so  nobly  done,  justly  sum  them 
selves  up  in  the  words, 

"  But  how  near 
Seem  the  anguish  and  the  fear  "  ? 

That  is,  does  not  the  generalness  of  "  what  strange 
visions,  etc."  blunt  the  dramatic  point  which  comes  to  a 
keen  and  fine  climax  with 

"  But  how  near 
Seem  "  this  "  anguish  and  "  this  "  fear," 

which  you  have  just  been  so  beautifully  describing? 
The  principle  on  which  I  would  exclude  the  two  last 
lines  of  the  stanza,  and  let  it  end  with  "  seem  the  an 
guish  and  the  fear  "  —  is  the  same  with  that  which  ex 
plains  the  well-known  fact  that,  to  see  one  man  with 


A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend  231 

blood  flowing  from  a  wound  is  a  more  powerful  excite 
ment  of  ordinary  sympathy  than  to  read  in  general  terms 
of  a  thousand  men  killed  and  wounded.  In  the  begin 
ning  of  a  picture  the  excluded  lines  would  be  unobjec 
tionable  :  but  I  am  confident  they  injure  the  climax  in 
the  end  of  one. 

5th.  In  the  7th  stanza,  the  line  "Here's  a  glowing 
warm  interior  "  hath  no  fellow  in  the  matter  of  rhyme, 
but  is  a  widow'd  and  all  mateless  line.  So,  also,  the 
line  "With  those  hues,  rich-toned  but  homely"  in  the 
same  strophe. 

6th.    Is  there  any  authority  for  the  form  "Salvatore  " 

of  Salvator  Rosa's  name  ?     I   merely  mean  to  call 

your  attention  to  it;  and  have  no  means  immediately 
at  hand  to  satisfy  my  doubt  as  to  whether  that  is  a  per 
missible  method  :  indeed  it  is  quite  possible  that  my 
question  is  ridiculous,  but,  —  stet. 

7th.  In  the  8th  strophe,  "gleams,"  in  the  last  line, 
should  be  gleam,  agreeing  with  "  hill-side  and  meadow." 

8th.  In  the  nth  strophe,  would  not  the  line  "And 
the  heavy  grief-moulds  pressed  "  reveal  its  grammatical 
dependence  and  connection  better  by  substituting  WITH 
for  " and "  :  —  or  by  some  such  construction? 

9th.  And  lastly,  and  generally,  would  not  the  refrain 
"  Oh  the  Fire  "  be  better  without  the  brackets  in  which 
it  is  inclosed?  —  And  now,  when  I  commence  to  tell 
you  about  the  charm  which  your  Poem  has  for  me,  I  am 
greatly  at  a  loss  where  to  begin,  and  wholly  at  a  loss 
where  to  end. 

"  Backward  o'er  its  river-courses, 
Backward  to  its  mountain-sources, 
While  the  blood-red  sunset  burneth 
Like  a  God's  face  grand  with  ire," 


23  2  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

is  too  beautiful,  and  one  can  say  nothing  about  it  better 
than  to  quote  it.  To  this,  the  "  Oh  thou  wan  faint 
hearted  fire  "  in  the  next  strophe  forms  an  exquisite 
set-off. 

I  have  already  spoken  of  the  Vesuvian  picture.  With 
what  a  poet's  instinct  you  have  seized  upon  those  acces 
sions  of  the  Volcano  (Y.  <?.,  the  temples,  the  statues,  the 
town,  the  hill-top,  the  mother,  the  children,  the  strand) 
which  would  make  the  picture  necessarily  beautiful  at 
the  same  time  that  it  is  tragical! 

"  Ere  the  flame-devouring  magic 
Coils  about  their  golden  splendor, 
And  the  tender 
Glory  of  the  mellowing  fields 
To  the  wild  Destroyer  yields  " 

is  an  exquisite  stroke  of  melody,  and  tingles  in  my 
ears  a  long  time. 

In  the  martyr-picture,  I  am  specially  struck  with  the 
marvellous  marriage  of  sound  and  word  in  the  last  two 
lines : 

"  And  o'er  those  reverend  hairs,  silvered  and  hoary, 
Settles  the  semblance  of  a  crown  of  glory." 

This  is  long  and  serene :  —  as  a  blissful  eternity  should 
be! 

Your  Flemish  interior  is  simply  perfect.  It  creates 
within  one  a  parlous  longing  for  a  tankard  and  pipe ;  — 
and,  what  ho,  drawer,  let  them  both  be  of  some 
capacity  ! 

And  next  comes  the  (me  judice)  glory  and  fair 
climax  of  the  poem,  the  sweetest  notes,  to  my  mind, 
and  the  fullest  of  genuine  poets' -music,  that  you  have 
ever  sung.  I  mean 


A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend          233 

"...  Fairly  flowing 
Like  a  rivulet  rippling  deep 
Thro'  the  meadow-lands  of  Sleep, 
Bordered  where  its  music  swells 
By  the  languid  Lotos-bells 
And  the  twilight  Asphodels," 

(and  if  flower-bells  were  church-bells  they  would  chime 
just  so  !) 

"  Mingled  with  a  richer  boon 
Of  queen-lilies,  each  a  moon 
Orbed  into  white  completeness  :  — 
O  the  perfume  and  the  sweetness 
Of  those  grouped  and  fairy  flowers, 
Over  which  the  love-lorn  Hours 
Linger,  —  not  alone  for  them, 
Tho'  the  Lotos  swings  its  stem 
With  a  lulling  stir  of  leaves, 
Tho'  the  lady-Lily  laves 
Coy  feet  in  the  crystal  waves, 
And  a  silvery  under-tune 
From  some  mystic  wind-song  grieves, 

Dainty-sweet,  amid  the  bells 
Of  the  twilight  Asphodels  — 

But  because  a  charm  more  rare 

Glorifies  the  mellow  air 

In  the  gleam  of  lifted  eyes, 

In  the  tranquil  ecstasies 

Of  two  lovers,  leaf-embowered 

Lounging  there, 

Each  of  whose  fair  lives  hath  flowered 

Like  the  lily  petals  finely, 

Like  the  Asphodels  divinely  ?  " 

I  am  quite  in  friendly  earnest,  —  and  you  know  I  love 
music  !  —  when  I  tell  you,  dear  Mr.  Hayne,  that  I  do 
not  know  of  anything,  of  the  same  style,  in  our  language 
which  is  so  beautiful  as  this  passage.  The  flow  of  the 


234  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

melody  is  unbrokenly  perfect ;  and  the  interfusing  of 
the  exquisite  nature-picture  with  the  one-passion  of  the 
two  human  hearts  makes  an  inner  music  dwelling  in  the 
material  music  which  enchants  one  beyond  measure. 
Nothing  you  have  ever  done  has  pleased  me  so  en 
tirely  :  and  I  believe  the  verdict  of  after-poets  will 
support  me. 

My  letter  is  so  long  that  I  will  not  go  into  any  more 
details  than  to  notice  with  what  exquisite  art  you  have 
made  your  poem,  at  the  close,  flicker  into  silence  as  the 
fire  flickers  into  darkness.  And  I  would  leave  you  to 
know  that  if  it  were  /,  I  would  not  for  all  the  world 
disturb  one  line  of  those  last  ones  about  which  you  have 
drawn  brackets  and  noted  "to  be  altered!"  Do  not 
alter  one  jot  or  tittle  of  those  concluding  lines :  you 
could  not  improve  them,  nor  any  man.  Do  not  put  a 
sacrilegious  pen-stroke  through  a  single  word  of  that 
strophe  No.  n.  You  can't  paint  a  rose  :  no  more  can 
you  paint  a  dead  leaf :  one  is  perfect,  so  is  t'  other  :  — 
Jet  your  dead  leaf  alone. 

I  return  your  MS.,  having  numbered  it,  so  that  you 
can  understand  my  references :  —  but  won't  you  be 
kind  enough  to  send  it  back  to  me,  to  keep  ?  I  would 
like  it  hugely,  as  a  remembrance  of  you. 

I  'm  always  Your  Friend, 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 

MARIETTA,  GA.,  September  13,  1871. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  HAYNE:  Your  letter  is  received,  and 
I  thank  you  very  heartily  for  the  frankness  with  which 
you  speak  therein.  I  shall  remember  your  prescription, 
if  the  means  I  'm  about  to  try  should  fail.  Truly,  it  is 
a  somewhat  desperate  alternative ;  but  desperate  emer- 


A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend          235 

gencies  always  present  such,  and  I  am  not  one  of  those 
who  would  shirk  the  situation,  and  die  dilly  dallying. 

Your  treatment  of  the  Macrobian  Bow  is  vigorous,  and 
full  of  dramatic  verve.  'T  is  a  fearful  tale,  beautifully 
told :  like  a  terrible  narrative  issuing  from  the  red  lips 
of  a  dainty  woman.  The  utter  coolness  of  the  cruelty 
is  brought  out  with  great  clearness ;  and  the  stroke  of 
pain  goes  to  the  heart  of  a  reader,  straight  as  Cam- 
byses'  arrow  to  the  heart  of  the  page.  The  accesso 
ries,  too,  —  of  the  "  hot  wan  morning,"  the  slumbering 
wave,  the  stirless  tree  —  all  these  give  a  kind  of  heart- 
lessness  of  atmosphere  to  the  whole  scene  that  frames  it 
perfectly. 

I  find  nothing  to  suggest,  to  help  the  piece ;  and  have 
made  only  a  few  small  verbal  and  punctuational  correc 
tions. 

I  will  be  obliged  if  you  will  forward  the  letters  of  in 
troduction  to  me,  "  Care  of  Winslow  and  Lanier,  29  Pine 
St.,  New  York,"  as  I  shall  probably  leave  before  they 
could  reach  me  here. 

It  gives  me  great  encouragement  that  you  think  I 
might  succeed  in  the  literary  life  :  —  for  I  take  it  that 
you  are  in  earnest  in  saying  so,  believing  that  you  love 
Art  with  too  genuine  affection  to  trifle  with  her  by  bring 
ing  to  her  service,  through  mere  politeness,  an  unworthy 
worker. 

I  enclose  your  MS.  Where  will  you  print  the  piece  ? 
Let  me  know,  so  that  I  may  see  it  when  published. 

If  I  can  do  anything  of  service  to  you  in  the  way  of 
small  corrections  of  MS.  (at  which  I  'm  said  to  be  very 
keen-eyed  —  small  hunter  for  small  game,  you  know)  do 
not  hesitate  to  call  on  me. 

Your  Friend,  SIDNEY  LANIER. 


236  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

MARIETTA,  GA.,  May  26,  1873. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  HAYNE  :  The  gracious  odor  of  your 
'•'violets"  has  reached  into  my  soul,  and  I  have  been 
loth  to  send  them  back  to  you.  Stanza  No.  III.  is  un- 
alloyedly  delicious ;  and  the  closing  line,  — 

"  Breathing  of  heart-break  and  sad  death  of  love,"  — 

is  simply  ravishing.  This  sings  itself  over  and  over  in 
my  heart ;  and  this  :  — 

"  Some  with  raised  brows,  and  eyes  of  constancy 
Fixed  with  fond  meanings  on  a  goal  above." 

What  a  tender  music  these  two  lines  make  !  Are  you,  by 
the  way,  a  musician  ?  Strange,  that  I  have  never  before 
asked  this  question,  —  when  so  much  of  my  own  life 
consists  of  music.  I  don't  know  that  I  've  ever  told 
you,  that  whatever  turn  I  have  for  art,  is  purely  musical ; 
poetry  being,  with  me,  a  mere  tangent  into  which  I  shoot 
sometimes.  I  could  play  passably  on  several  instru 
ments  before  I  could  write  legibly ;  and  since  then,  the 
very  deepest  of  my  life  has  been  filled  with  music,  which 
I  have  studied  and  cultivated  far  more  than  poetry.  I 
only  mention  this  in  order  that  you  may  understand  the 
delight  your  poetry  gives  me.  It  is  so  rarely  musical, 
so  melodiously  pure  and  silvery  in  flow :  it  occupies  in 
poetry  the  place  of  Mendelssohn  in  music,  or  of  Franz 
Abt  or  of  Schubert.  It  is,  in  this  respect,  simply  unique 
in  modern  poetry :  William  Morris  comes  nearest  to  it, 
but  Morris  lives  too  closely  within  hearing  of  Tennyson 
to  write  unbroken  music :  for  Tennyson  (let  me  not 
blaspheme  against  the  Gods  !)  is  not  a  musical,  tho'  in 
other  respects  (particularly  in  that  of  phrase- making)  a 
very  wonderful  writer. 


A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend          237 

While  at  Alleghany  Springs  last  summer,  I  loaned  to 

Miss  J F ,  of  Augusta,  my  copy  of  your  "  Legends 

and  Lyrics"  on  condition  she  should  return  it.  I've 
written  her  since  about  it ;  but  my  letter  probably  failed 
to  reach  her,  as  I  knew  not  her  address  save  that  she 
lived  in  Augusta.  Having  a  copy  from  you,  I  didn't 
want  to  lose  it ;  and  if  you  have  another  by  you,  I  would 
be  glad  if  you  would  straightway  write  your  name  therein 
and  mail  to  me. 

I  do  not  know  the  man  Williams,  you  mention.  I  have 
been  greatly  amused  at  some  strictures 1  upon  you  made 

by  certain  Knights  of  Mrs.  W ,  in  condign  punishment 

for  your  critique  on  Mrs.  W.'s  book.  I  have  not  read 
that  production;  but  from  all  I  can  hear  'tis  a  most 
villainous  poor  pitiful  piece  of  work ;  and,  so  far  from  en 
deavoring  to  serve  the  South  by  blindly  plastering  it  with 
absurd  praises,  I  think  all  true  patriots  ought  to  unite  in 
redeeming  the  land  from  the  imputation  that  such  books 
are  regarded  as  casting  honor  upon  the  section.  God 
forbid  we  should  really  be  brought  so  low  as  that  we 
must  perforce  brag  of  such  works  as  "  Clifford  Troupe  " 
and  "  Heart  Hungry  "  :  and  God  be  merciful  to  that  man 
(he  is  an  Atlanta  editor)  who  boasted  that  sixteen  thou 
sand  of  these  books  had  been  sold  in  the  South  !  This 
last  damning  fact  (if  it  be  a  fact,  —  and  I  should  not 
wonder)  ought  to  have  been  concealed  at  the  risk  of 
life,  limb  and  fortune. 

I  'm  glad  to  hear  you  're  going  to  travel ;  but  you 
are  starting  too  soon.  I  hope  to  get  to  New  York  City 
about  the  ist  of  July.  If  you  should  be  there  any  time 
between  that  and  the  middle  of  October,  let  me  know, 

1  A  great  smudge  of  ink  here  is  encircled  and  labelled :  "  Done 
after  all  was  written.  Can't  write  it  over  now  I " 


23  8  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

by  a  note  addressed  to  me  care  of  "  Winslow,  Lanier  & 
Co.,  27  Pine  St.,  N.  Y.,"  — an  address  which  will  always 
reach  me. 

I  return  your  "  Violets  "  :  and  I  hope  that  when  you 
go  to  Heaven  you  '11  be  wafted  there  on  the  sighs  of 
just  such  another  bunch  !  Your  Friend, 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 

MACON,  G-A.,  May  23, 1874. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  HAYNE  :  Your  letter  gave  me  sincere 
pleasure ;  and  I  would  have  sent  you  some  expression  of 
my  gratification  at  hearing  from  you  by  a  much  earlier  mail 
than  this,  had  it  not  been  for  my  Arabian  eccentricities 
and  unreliablenesses  of  movements,  which  have  kept  me 
on  the  wing  for  a  month  past.  I  am  now  in  Macon, 
and  shall  remain  here  for  three  or  four  weeks,  —  then 
Northward  again.  I  am  truly  rejoiced  to  see,  by  occa 
sional  evidences  in  the  magazines  that  you  are  again 
active  in  that  delicious  business  of  Creation. 

My  brother  has  just  sent  me  your  "  Cloud-Star  "  which 
he  has  clipped  from  some  paper.  I  am  charmed  with  it, 
and  am  not  sure  but  I  shall  come  presently  to  think  it 
the  strongest  thing  you  have  done.  To  die,  consumed 
by  these  heavenly  fires  :  —  that  is  infinitely  better  than 
to  live  the  tepid  lives  and  love  the  tepid  loves  that 
belong  to  the  lower  planes  of  activity;  and  I  would 
rather  fail  at  some  things  I  wot  of,  than  succeed  at  some 
others.  Is  not  that  the  secret  that  lies  hid  in  the  bosom 
of  this  rose  of  a  poem  ? 

Pray  send  me  immediately  the  long  poem  you  speak 
of.  I  shall  take  the  greatest  pleasure  in  looking  it  over, 
and  if  I  find  anything  in  the  way  of  flaws  will  yell  it  out 
to  you.  Nothing  in  the  world  like  little  niggers  and 


A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend          239 

idiots,  for  finding  things,  don't  you  know?  Send  the 
poem  to  me  at  Macon. 

The  review  of  your  "  Legends  and  Lyrics  "  was  sent 
to  Lippincott's,  and  declined.  I  afterwards  mentioned 
to  Browne  that  I  had  written  it  (tho'  I  did  not  offer  it  to 
him  in  terms)  :  who  told  me  that  a  review  of  the  book 
had  already  appeared  in  the  "  Southern  Mag."  So  my 
piece  lies  bleeding,  and  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  it.1 
Tell  me  what  you  are  doing. 

In  answer  to  your  kind  inquiries  as  to  myself:  I  spent 
the  winter  in  Baltimore,  pursuing  music  and  meditating 
my  "  Jacquerie."  I  was  Flauto  Primo  of  the  Peabody 
Symphony  Orchestra,  and  God  only  could  express  the 
delight  and  exultation  with  which  I  helped  to  perform 
the  great  works  brought  out  by  that  organization  during 
the  winter.  Of  course  this  was  a  queer  place  for  me  : 
aside  from  the  complete  bouleversemcnt  of  going  from 
the  Court- House  to  the  footlights.  I  was  a  raw  player 
and  a  provincial  withal,  without  practice,  and  guiltless  of 
instruction — for  I  never  had  a  teacher.  To  go,  under 
these  circumstances,  among  old  professional  musicians, 
and  assume  a  leading  part  in  a  large  Orchestra  which 
was  organized  expressly  to  play  the  most  difficult  works 
of  the  great  masters — was  (now  that  it 's  all  over)  a  piece 
of  temerity  that  I  do  not  remember  ever  to  have  equalled 
before.  But  I  trusted  in  Love,  pure  and  simple ;  and 
was  not  disappointed,  for,  as  if  by  miracle,  difficulties 
and  discouragements  melted  away  before  the  fire  of  a 
passion  for  music  which  grows  ever  stronger  within  my 
heart  —  and  I  came  out  with  results  more  gratifying  than 
it  is  becoming  in  me  to  specify.  'T  is  quite  settled  that 

1  It  did  finally  appear  in  the  "  Southern  Magazine ;"  see  the 
volume  "  Music  and  Poetry." 


Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

I  cannot  practise  law  :  either  writing  or  speaking  appears 
to  produce  small  haemorrhages  which  completely  sap  my 
strength ;  and  I  am  going  in  a  few  weeks  to  New  York, 
—  without  knowing  what  on  earth  I  am  to  do  there  — 
armed  only  with  a  silver  Boehm  flute,  and  some  dozen  of 
steel  pens. 

Happy  man,  —  you  who  have  your  cabin  in  among 
the  hills  and  trees,  you  who  can  sit  still  and  work  at 
Home,  —  pray  a  short  prayer  once  in  a  while  for  one  as 
homeless  as  the  ghost  of  Judas  Iscariot. 

Write  me  straightway:  and  write,  as  to  one  who  is 
always  Your  faithful  friend, 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 

PHILADELPHIA,  PA.,  October  16, 1875. 
MY  DEAR  MR.  HAYNE  :  Your  note  —  which  has  fol 
lowed  me  about  and  finally  reached  me  here  —  gave  me 
a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  and  I  hasten  to  assure  you 
that  I  have  for  months  only  been  putting  off  from  day  to 
day  the  actual  committal  to  paper  of  the  letter  which 
has  been  lying  really  written  within  me.  This  "  putting 
off"  has  been  due,  not  to  laziness,  but  to  its  opposite.  I 
believe  I  wrote  you  sometime  ago  that  I  had  been  em 
ployed  to  make  a  book  on  Florida.  I  commenced  the 
travels  preparatory  thereto  in  April  last :  the  thing  im 
mediately  began  to  ramify  and  expand,  until  I  quickly 
found  I  was  in  for  a  long  and  very  difficult  job  :  so  long, 
and  so  difficult,  that,  after  working  day  and  night  for  the 
last  three  months  on  the  materials  I  had  previously  col 
lected,  I  have  just  finished  the  book,  and  am  now  up  to 
my  ears  in  proof-sheets  and  wood-cuts  which  the  pub 
lishers  are  rushing  through  in  order  to  publish  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment,  the  book  having  several  fea- 


A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend         241 

tures  designed  to  meet  the  wants  of  the  winter-visitors 
to  Florida.  It  is  in  truth  only  a  kind  of  spiritualized 
guide-book. 

This  it  is  which  has  prevented  me  from  writing  you. 
With  a  nervous  employer  and  a  pushing  publisher  be 
hind  me,  I  have  had  to  work  from  ten  to  fourteen  hours 
a  day;  and  the  confinement  to  the  desk  brought  on 
my  old  haemorrhages  about  a  month  ago  which  quite 
threatened  for  a  time  to  suspend  my  work  forever  on 
this  side  of  [the]  River. 

I  'm  thus  minute  in  detailing  the  reasons  for  my  failure 
to  write  you,  because  all  along  through  these  last  three 
or  four  months  when  gratifying  things  have  been  hap 
pening  to  me  in  connection  with  my  little  artistic  efforts, 
I  have  had  constantly  in  mind  the  kindly  help  and  en 
couragement  which  your  cheering  words  used  to  bring 
me  when  I  was  even  more  obscure  than  I  am  now. 
Even  in  my  insignificant  experience  I  have  seen  so 
much  of  the  hue-and-cry  sort  of  criticism  —  that  which 
waits  until  it  finds  how  the  big-mouth'd  dogs  are  running 
and  then  squeaks  in  chorus  without  the  least  knowledge 
of,  or  regard  for,  the  game  or  the  course  of  the  hunt  — 
that  I  have  learned  to  set  a  high  value  on  genuine  and 
independent  judgments.  These  you  gave  me,  and  I  will 
always  be  grateful  to  you  for  them. 

I  fully  expected  to  go  to  Aiken,  and  to  have  sight  of 
you,  there ;  but  the  devious  current  of  work  bore  me  to 
New  York,  and  although  I  had  to  run  back  to  Charles 
ton  for  two  days,  about  a  month  after  I  wrote  you,  I  was 
never  able  to  get  to  Aiken.  I  met  Butcher  and  Randall 
in  Augusta,  but  had  only  one  uncertain  day  there,  and 
they  agreed  it  was  impossible  to  get  hold  of  you  in  the 
limited  time  I  had. 

16 


242  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Now,  then,  let  me  know  upon  what  you  are  engaged, 
and  how  you  are  faring.  I  have  not  yet  had  a  moment 
to  look  into  your  last  volume  —  a  pleasure  I  Ve  been 
promising  myself  as  soon  as  these  dreadful  proof-sheets 
are  finished. 

Write  me  "Care  of  Gibson  Peacock,  Esq.,  1425 
Walnut  Street,  Philadelphia,  Pa." 

I  will  be  glad  to  hear  from  you,  and  of  you  :  being 
always 

Sincerely  yours, 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 

During  the  next  six  years  I  heard  from  Lanier  at 
longer  and  longer  intervals.  As  time  advanced,  his  re 
sponsibilities  seemed  to  increase,  pan  passu,  with  his 
growing  reputation.  No  man  ever  had  a  loftier  artistic 
conscience.  I  am  disposed  to  believe  that  between  the 
necessities  of  his  position  as  a  poor  man,  which  forced 
him  often  into  hasty,  uncongenial  work,  and  his  keen  in 
stincts  and  high  standards  of  artistic  excellence,  he  suffered 
a  species  of  torture.  At  all  events,  in  the  notes  I  received 
from  him  during  the  period  specified,  his  tone  alternated 
between  a  certain  feverish  exaltation  and  a  profound  de 
spondency.  Never  have  I  known  him  to  complain  —  to 
"wear  his  saddened  heart"  ostentatiously  "upon  his 
sleeve ; "  but  I  could  read  between  the  lines  even  of  his 
(apparently)  more  cheerful  communications,  and  detect 
the  slow,  half-muffled  throb  of  heart-break  there  !  He 
struggled  bravely  on,  long  after  he  could  not  but  have  felt 
that  the  shadow,  for  weary  years  darkening  over  him,  had 
taken  at  last  the  hues  of  death  —  that  the  fatal  weapon 
long  suspended  above  his  head  was  about  to  fall. 

The  letter  which  follows  was  the  last  of  any  length  I 
ever  received  from  him  :  — 


A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend          243 

435  N.  CALVERT  ST.,  BALTIMORE,  MD., 
November  19,  1880. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  HAYNE  :  I  have  been  wishing  to  write 
you  a  long  time,  and  have  thought  several  letters  to  you. 
But  I  could  never  tell  you  the  extremity  of  illness,  of 
poverty,  and  of  unceasing  work,  in  which  I  have  spent 
the  last  three  years ;  and  you  would  need  only  once  to 
see  the  weariness  with  which  I  crawl  to  bed  after 
a  long  day's  work  —  and  often  a  long  night's  work 
at  the  heel  of  it,  —  and  Sundays  just  as  well  as 
other  days,  —  in  order  to  find  in  your  heart  a  full 
warrant  for  my  silence.  It  seems  incredible  that  I  have 
printed  such  an  unchristian  quantity  of  matter,  —  all, 
too,  tolerably  successful,  —  and  earned  so  little  money ; 
and  the  wife  and  the  four  boys  —  who  are  so  lovely  that 
I  would  not  think  a  palace  good  enough  for  them  if  I 
had  it  —  make  one's  earnings  seem  all  the  less. 

This  leads  me  to  think  of  your  fervent  ascription  of 
praise  in  the  October  "Scribner's"  which  several  of  my 
friends  admire  with  me.  I  will  get  the  November 
"  Harper's  "  —  to  which  your  note  alludes  —  and  read 
your  poem  there.  A  couple  of  songs  by  you,  which 
I  read  in  a  news-store  a  short  time  ago  while  rapidly 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  "  The  South  Atlantic,"  gave  me 
much  pleasure.  I  fancy  that  I  perceive  a  clarified  qual 
ity  in  your  later  verse  which  shows  a  distinct  growth  in 
you.  The  plane  of  art  seems  higher  and  quieter,  and 
the  air  purer. 

I  send  you  by  this  mail  a  copy  of  my  Boy's  King 
Arthur,  which  the  publishers  have  brought  out  in  sump 
tuous  style  as  a  companion-book  to  my  Boy's  Froissart 
which  was  so  successful  last  year.  I  hope  you  will  like 
the  Introduction :  as  for  the  matter,  —  it  is  old  Sir 


244  Letters  of  Sidney  Lanier 

Thomas  Malory's,  and  I  doubt  not  you  already  know 
him  well  for  one  of  the  sweetest,  cunningest,  simplest, 
and  skillfullest  writers  of  English,  as  well  as  story-tellers, 
that  ever  lived.  I  'm  greatly  interested  in  the  sale  of 
this  book:  not  directly,  for  being  in  narrow  straits  I 
sold  the  copyright  for  cash  several  months  ago ;  but 
because  the  price  of  another  book  I  Ve  just  sent  on,  to 
continue  the  series  with,  next  Christmas,  depends  on  it. 

For  six  months  past  a  ghastly  fever  has  been  taking 
possession  of  me  each  day  at  about  twelve  M.,  and  hold 
ing  my  head  under  the  surface  of  indescribable  distress 
for  the  next  twenty  hours,  subsiding  only  enough  each 
morning  to  let  me  get  on  my  working- harness,  but  never 
intermitting.  A  number  of  tests  show  it  not  to  be  the 
"  hectic  "  so  well  known  in  consumption ;  and  to  this 
day  it  has  baffled  all  the  skill  I  could  find  in  New  York, 
in  Philadelphia,  and  here.  I  have  myself  been  disposed 
to  think  it  arose  purely  from  the  bitterness  of  having  to 
spend  my  time  in  making  academic  lectures  and  boy's 
books  —  pot-boilers  all — when  a  thousand  songs  are 
singing  in  my  heart  that  will  certainly  kill  me  if  I  do 
not  utter  them  soon.  But  I  don't  think  this  diagnosis 
has  found  favor  with  any  practical  physician ;  and  mean 
time  I  work  day  after  day  in  such  suffering  as  is  piteous 
to  see. 

—  I  hope  all  this  does  not  read  like  a  Jeremiad :  I 
mention  these  matters  only  in  the  strong  rebellion 
against  what  I  fear  might  be  your  thought  —  namely, 
forgetfulness  of  you  —  if  you  did  not  know  the  causes 
which  keep  me  from  sending  you  more  frequent  mes 
sages.  I  do  not,  and  will  not,  forget  the  early  encour 
agements  which  used  to  come  from  you  when  I  was  just 
daring  to  think  of  making  verses. 


A  Poet's  Letters  to  a  Friend          245 

I  am  glad  to  see,  from  your  letter,  that  your  illness 
abates.  I  protest  against  your  sick  terrapin,  floating 
down  a  muddy  current,  and  substitute  a  soul  sweeping 
down  a  stream  bank'd  with  marvels,  whose  duty  is  to 
keep  all  eyes  open,  and  report,  in  poems,  from  time 
to  time. 

Please  thank  Mrs.  Hayne  for  her  card,  and  believe 
me  always 

Sincerely  yours, 

SIDNEY  LANIER. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


JAN  4    1963 


LD  21A-50m-3,'62 
(07097sIO)476B 


MAY  12  1940 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


RECTD  LD 

DEC 


LO  2  i-'^o/d 


1337 


' 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


YC1594* 


